I’m just a bit twisted, wwayy more warped than I should be, and I have a jacked up sense of humor. Said sense of humor that tends to leaves others (normal people) shaking their heads and wondering if they’ve been victims of a brush with non-reality.
Which may or may not be due the up half the night case of insomnia of late. To that, I plead the 5th.
I blame my humor on my family
It goes like this. Nothing I’m about to tell you has been embellished a single iota. My family is just that good.
My mother has three small dogs. Dogs no taller than mid-shin. Dogs who, depending on the day, current moon phase, the last person that fed them, and whether their morning…constitutional was all that it could be; demand my affections or bark non-stop.
At me, to me, about me, Gawd only knows.
My mother however, is entirely different (of course). The dogs love her and that’s all there is to it.
Before I take this any further, I need to preface this with the fact that my mother is an animal lover (nooo…). She takes in almost everything, tries to nurse it back to health or keeps it until it bites her.
The pack of yappers my mother lovingly calls dogs found this nest when they decided, lovingly I’m sure, to bolt from her and explore one morning.
Rest easy, no bunnies were hurt, the li’l barkers just made their presence known to Mom, that is when she finally caught up to them and called them all sorts of…loving names for running from her (and they were probably yelling, “I’m freeee!!!”).
Mom decided to incorporate an old dowel rod to her morning romp with her wild bunch and she calls it the Bunny Whacker (stick).
Now. I told you all of that so you’d understand this. You’ll thank me later, I know you will.
The actual Tail of the
Bunny Whacker (stick)
So here’s my mother, it’s morning, she’s riding herd on her three pack and has the bunny whacker stick with her.
All of them trotting along merrily in the early morning sun, maybe even before the sun has come up, who knows? Mom’s strange like that and…it happens.
The bunnies all pile out of their nest in an intimidating bunny-like formation with snarling…(buck teeth ) fangs and vicious little claws, all of them growling dirty bunny words and ready to get whacked defending their home against the gruesome foursome headed their way.
Or so that’s what I thought I heard when she was telling this story. I heard her correctly, except for a few, minor really, teeny little details.
What Mom was really saying, was that the bunny whacker is used to protect the bunnies from her yap pack. No whacking even took place apparently.
No, Mom just shakes the bunny whacker stick at the gaggle of growlers and they cease and desist. Really? As they would delight in the chance to play with the little fuzzy things in the yard until they didn’t want to play anymore and played dead which is actually really dead.
So it’s a bunny whacker stick yes, but a bunny whacker stick to protect her… We hate you CeeLee, and that’s why we all bark at you at the same time, because we know you hate it when we do and since we hate you anyway, you can kiss our fuzzy little-darlings from wreaking havoc on the bunnies?
Yeah, sure. Of course! How silly of me! That makes complete sense.
Maybe I should christen my yard stick that I have to carry, as my butterfly be gone stick, because Gawd knows, my yeah I’m fat, so what? spoiled Rott is always under fire from those little bundles of terror.