Little Bunny Foo Foo, he ain’t got no gratitude

Little Bunny Foo Foo, he ain't got no gratitude

Pam Burke

Just when you think you're doing something noble for the environment, you become a cruel torturer and murderer of small grassland creatures. No good deed goes unskewed when you live in a junkyard.

In the idealistic days of our youth, my husband, John, and I made a deal to buy the chunk of land on which we'd parked our once-mobile home and committed to clear said property of whatever metal and machinery dregs remained of the auto salvage yard that was then housed there. Among our feelings of hope and misgiving, we felt good that one day we would restore this chunk of Earth to a more pristine condition.

Fast forward 17 years to the junkyard retirement. With plenty of time this winter to sit inside where it's warm and to brood, we had an epiphany. We tallied all the things that we need to get done, what we want to do, our five-year goals and all the mandatory daily chores that keep the place from freezing up, burning down, crumbling into decay with the next high wind, or becoming a haz-mat site.

Then we factored in our time, physical capabilities, and functioning machinery (multiplied by needed repairs), and we gave up.

We contacted a company to make a deal to collect the big metal stuff for recycling, and to our surprise they came out mid-January to get 'er done. We knew there would be sacrifices on our part, especially with little time to sort through the piles, stacks and stashes to ferret out the treasures. Projects would be abandoned, like the farm implement doohickey with the wheels cute enough to be made into a horse cart. Raw materials would get towed away, like the piece of pipe that we needed one month later to repair the oil-burner's chimney. Whatever.

We mentally prepared for our losses in order to enjoy the greater good of having a daunting task completed — utilizing someone else's time, labor and machinery — and to make major progress toward our five-year goal of a clean property.

We were, however, not prepared for the havoc our "progress" would wreak on the cottontail bunny population.

What we called raw materials, junk, scrap or garbage, the little bunnies called home. As the work crew removed the varied stuff of 30 years' accumulation, the bunnies scurried about our property in confusion and dire emergency — homeless in winter's sub-zero temperatures.

Then a pair of foxes moved in for the easy feast.

We were remorseful and pitied the bunnies — until we learned this: In times of chaos, bunnies become fierce.

Even the three bunnies, living the good life under our heated trailer house with a convenient hay bale deli not more than 30 feet away, were suddenly joining the fray of turf wars as the wild hooligans from bunny dens on the other side of the junkyard tried to move in on their good thing. The two opposing forces were conducting gang warfare in the hay pile and under our home.

Bunnies growl. It's disconcerting.

Here's another truth: Bunnies don't care about the environment or how many trips to the chiropractor I need to recover from hard manual labor. Bunnies care about shelter, food and personal bunny space. Eventually, they turned on us.

It was during the time of the first great flood of 2011 which occurred as the last recycling crew member drove from the yard, oblivious to the catcalls and rude gesturing of the rioting bunnies lining the driveway. The temperature had risen for four days. Our drainage ditch, clogged with packed snowdrifts, overflowed. The runoff flooded through our yard and under the house. It was, even I admit, apocalyptic.

One homeless bunny floated by on a weathered scrap of board crying, "All is lost! All is lost!"

Another stood on a rock pulpit with a tiny book in-paw; propped at his unlucky feet was a sign that read "Bible Thumper." He pointed his scraggly toenails at me and squealed, "Bambi's mother died for your sins, human!"

So much for trying to make life better for everyone.

(Life is complicated at http://viewnorth40.wordpress.com.)

Just when you think you're doing something noble for the environment, you become a cruel torturer and murderer of small grassland creatures. No good deed goes unskewed when you live in a junkyard.

In the idealistic days of our youth, my husband, John, and I made a deal to buy the chunk of land on which we'd parked our once-mobile home and committed to clear said property of whatever metal and machinery dregs remained of the auto salvage yard that was then housed there. Among our feelings of hope and misgiving, we felt good that one day we would restore this chunk of Earth to a more pristine condition.

Fast forward 17 years to the junkyard retirement. With plenty of time this winter to sit inside where it's warm and to brood, we had an epiphany. We tallied all the things that we need to get done, what we want to do, our five-year goals and all the mandatory daily chores that keep the place from freezing up, burning down, crumbling into decay with the next high wind, or becoming a haz-mat site.

Then we factored in our time, physical capabilities, and functioning machinery (multiplied by needed repairs), and we gave up.

We contacted a company to make a deal to collect the big metal stuff for recycling, and to our surprise they came out mid-January to get 'er done. We knew there would be sacrifices on our part, especially with little time to sort through the piles, stacks and stashes to ferret out the treasures. Projects would be abandoned, like the farm implement doohickey with the wheels cute enough to be made into a horse cart. Raw materials would get towed away, like the piece of pipe that we needed one month later to repair the oil-burner's chimney. Whatever.

We mentally prepared for our losses in order to enjoy the greater good of having a daunting task completed — utilizing someone else's time, labor and machinery — and to make major progress toward our five-year goal of a clean property.

We were, however, not prepared for the havoc our "progress" would wreak on the cottontail bunny population.

What we called raw materials, junk, scrap or garbage, the little bunnies called home. As the work crew removed the varied stuff of 30 years' accumulation, the bunnies scurried about our property in confusion and dire emergency — homeless in winter's sub-zero temperatures.

Then a pair of foxes moved in for the easy feast.

We were remorseful and pitied the bunnies — until we learned this: In times of chaos, bunnies become fierce.

Even the three bunnies, living the good life under our heated trailer house with a convenient hay bale deli not more than 30 feet away, were suddenly joining the fray of turf wars as the wild hooligans from bunny dens on the other side of the junkyard tried to move in on their good thing. The two opposing forces were conducting gang warfare in the hay pile and under our home.

Bunnies growl. It's disconcerting.

Here's another truth: Bunnies don't care about the environment or how many trips to the chiropractor I need to recover from hard manual labor. Bunnies care about shelter, food and personal bunny space. Eventually, they turned on us.

It was during the time of the first great flood of 2011 which occurred as the last recycling crew member drove from the yard, oblivious to the catcalls and rude gesturing of the rioting bunnies lining the driveway. The temperature had risen for four days. Our drainage ditch, clogged with packed snowdrifts, overflowed. The runoff flooded through our yard and under the house. It was, even I admit, apocalyptic.

One homeless bunny floated by on a weathered scrap of board crying, "All is lost! All is lost!"

Another stood on a rock pulpit with a tiny book in-paw; propped at his unlucky feet was a sign that read "Bible Thumper." He pointed his scraggly toenails at me and squealed, "Bambi's mother died for your sins, human!"

So much for trying to make life better for everyone.