Rabbit Balls
Sean:
I missed your call and wanted to get back. My bad.
I know you were thinking about the long trip D and I took yesterday returning from OBX, and I would have called, but it was late. We ate week old warmed-over pizza and went to bed.
Once Layla the husky found her bed, she didn’t stir until this morning.
On the trip, we stumbled over to Midlothian, VA (I’m loathed to ask: is there a North Lothian?) to visit shortly with my sister, my brother-in-law, my nieces, multiple offspring whose names I can’t keep straight, and one nieces’ husband when he arrived later with oldest child from her soccer game who promptly collapsed on her mother, first upset then settling in — after a hard fought game. Seeing her eight-year-old eyes — the eyes of a child who refused to look in my direction; they were beautiful like her mother’s, and I forgave her.
I suspect her not knowing me is my fault for not being a closer relative. My sister’s family is chock full of closeness, so I’m hardly missed. My sister kept introducing me as her brother. “This is my brother!” but none of the kiddos were impressed. At least my nieces both hugged me — and my sister didn’t need to introduce me to them. They are a very huggy lot, these people.
Truth, I’m an introvert — disguised or otherwise distracted. Being my son, you might appreciate that.
It was a long drive from the Outer Banks. Leaving paradise is one of those grim-faced missions you strap yourself in for and proceed. I-95 is fucking insane, and now that the Covid police have released them, drivers are swarming like cicadas, bad driving Mercedes, Amazon trucks and wrecked Hondas all competing for the same three lanes. Kinda like that chariot scene in Ben-Hur with the dour-faced Heston whipping his poor horses.
Soon after we’d arrived in Middle Earth, er, Middle Lothian, my niece, whose house it is, swore the doors were all closed and the rabbits were safely tucked away.
“Oh please, just take her off the leash. Layla’s so sweet. She’ll be fine.”
I had my doubts, but that’s just me and I’d been driving I-95—like being dazed from drinking minus a good buzz.
“OK,” said D, also zoned-out from the road.
Layla the husky has a way better nose for these things, and she meant to make the best of being let loose on a mission.
Minutes later, above the chatter and kids, I heard the familiar howl of my wife’s husky —Layla’s hers when she misbehaves — howling in the distance. Not a good indicator given the circumstances.
First searching the first floor and finding no downed Leporidae, I followed her only possible route upstairs. In the far bedroom with a cage full of — her words, “holy bat shit, goddamn rabbits!” I would never curse like that dog.
To be clear, they are my niece’s rabbits, though she claims they’re for the kids.
Do you know how many rabbit balls can be pooped ball by ball from these cuddly creatures? In the eminent face of death, they proceeded to purge their systems, scared shitless as it were. Or so it appeared.
Though Layla was looking past the mess to the meal. And the rabbits, seeing death at their cage door, were aging fast by the minute with Layla whining she could help that.
“OMG! These people have rabbits?” Layla kept telling me it was impossible.
Leading her back downstairs, I explained, rabbits are considered pets by some, though she wasn’t having it. “They seem nice and plump, so why wait?” For next half hour, Layla whined by the downstairs door, while upstairs the rabbits said their prayers.
Later, when my niece’s husband and their eldest child arrived from soccer, and I mentioned in passing Layla could take care of his rabbit problem, being from Texas, he was all down with that. His wife, my sister’s second daughter, well, we’ll just say she expressed an opposite opinion in an excited vocalization. The women in my family take these things harder than they should.
Oh, I kid.
My grandmother hated that cat she fed once. Despite the poor creature willing to share the garter snake with her adopted family — then having her kittens in a flower bed. Granny showed her concern by calling Animal Control. I held it against her for years.
Which was our clue to depart Mid, three-quarter, full Lothian to join that northward migration on I-95, taking an hour getting past Fredericksburg. If I were dictator, I’d close all four exits to Fredericksburg and tell them to clean up their transportation problem on their own instead of inflicting it on the entire eastern seaboard.
For the first time I can remember, Layla slept in this morning. D and I both wished we could.
Love, Dad
PS When you leave Seattle, I’ve arranged a separate place for your beautiful, gray cat. Emily deserves better in her senior years than being introduced to Layla the husky. I feel sure the rabbits would agree.
