Home Wrecker

I have bad news.

I have no future in wildlife protection.

Before you start crying for the squirrels (if you are wont to do such chest beating over these frequent road kill), rest assured that I believe that they are still fine and growing well in care of a rehabilitation facility, with the exception of THE FACT THAT THEY WERE NOT SQUIRRELS AT ALL.

That deserved caps. Trust me.

What my husband raked up that day was actually a bunny nest.

(Now I give you permission to start crying, because bunnies are generally more well-liked than squirrels. People tend go 'ooooooh, bunnies,' while the squirrels get 'ewwwww.')

You know how squirrels have long tails? Long, freaky tails that sometimes wave around like a snake under the influence of a charmer. Eek.

Well, apparently, the babies do too.

So right above this spot where this nest was, nestled in our magnolia tree, was the remnants of a squirrel home. That little fact is really the thing that did us in and made us 'identify' these wriggling creatures ourselves. As squirrels. And not bunnies.

Not bunnies with a belly full of mama bunny milk, which the rehabilitator said that they had.

Which, damn it, has really f'ed me up a bit.

So there are three things that kept me from beating my head against the wall when I found this out.

1. Not even the squirrel lover to whom we first transported the bunnies realized that these were not squirrels, and she actually held one. "It didn't occur to me to even check the tail," she said. Me neither. Seriously. Why confirm that an animal known for its tail even has one?

2. There was a baby bunny-sized dead carcass in with the bunnies, covered in ants and other bugs.

3. Apparently, bunny mamas feed their young a few times a day, and if the nest had been compromised by an intruder, it is possible that the mother abandoned it. They could have still had full bellies, despite being left behind.

At least, this is what I tell myself.

Because I have been trying not to tell myself that we destroyed an intentionally placed nest and ripped two bunny babies from their mama's paws.

You know? Because that would blow.

("What heartless bitch took mah behbehs?")

Me and ground cover simply do not mix. I am going to ignore the pachysandra from now on. And if my husband attempts to rake it, I will run away. No more baby nests.

Perhaps as karma for my bunny-nest destruction, I had a wicked case of poison ivy on my forearms. We spent the weekend pulling up periwinkle and pachysandra, and clearly some of those evil three-leaved vines were tangled within. I wore gloves, but also a tank top. Probably not the smartest shirt choice.

Having poison ivy (and since living in this house, I've had it too many times to count) makes one consider all sorts of torturous-sounding home treatments. This morning I actually considered lancing some welts and pouring alcohol on it. Because this shit itches. Like the dickens. However dickens itch. Which I presume is a lot.

I bet that bunny mom is out there laughing, watching me scratch through the window.