The Resident Guest

All summer there's been a guest at our house. For a while, his parents were here, too. Now they've gone and only Baby Bunny remains.

That's what we call him, the sweet little thing. He sits in our yard or, more often, under the neighbors' pine tree. On warm days, he stretches out flat and you wouldn't know he was there except for when a breeze or a bug causes his ears to twitch.

He is growing so fast. He must be getting some of the same fertilizer as the sunflowers. He likes it when we talk to him. I worry though because some folks around here let cats roam (bad owners, BAD!). That might be OK if you live on a farm. Not in the city. And not within a few hundred yards of a four-lane thoroughfare.

Wednesday morning, I caught one of the neighborhood cats under the neighbors' truck. I jumped from the car, and chased him down the alley flinging rocks. Little sucker was laying in wait for my bunny. (I'd never hurt him. But these guys are brazen. If you aren't crazy aggressive, they just sit and look at you like: "Who, me? Do you really think I'm going anywhere?")

Sorry, pal. Not on my watch. And not on ground he considers one of his homes. (He can usually be found in one of four neighboring properties.)

Go murder something else, somewhere else.