*Note: There is some sad, sensitive detail herein. -- Steve
I decided last Thursday, in lieu of this busy week and promised heatwave, to mow my lawn. Five minutes into my mowing, I accidentally killed a baby bunny. It was inevitable. The grass was high, and the bunny and its sibling could not be seen underneath and in the shade created by the Crepe Myrtle tree which soon will bloom and further beautify our yard. I went about my business and, when I saw a tiny gray body fly about two feet through the air, I thought and said, "Oh no." I stopped the mower, and silence ensued. I took a few steps, saw a tiny bunny grazing in the soft green grass, then about 6" further, saw another tiny gray and white bunny body, this one on its side and breathing heavy, guts having escaped through the wound in its lower body, fresh blood beginning to leak from its midsection, and much blood in the head area. I'll cease the gore here and ask that, before I continue, I need no advice or scolding from animal and rabbit lovers regarding what I should or shouldn't have done. Please refrain, if you feel encouraged to do so, from possibly criticizing my not checking the lawn beforehand, and the subsequent decision I made when the bunny breathed its last. Now I'll continue. I felt terrible. I knelt down and, as I did so, the surviving bunny leaped towards the fence that lines our yard and bolted through an opening, away from danger: me. The other bunny, its breathing now becoming more labored, I picked up, blood eventually covering my gardening gloves. Finally, it breathed its last, the tummy ceasing now to move up and down. As I looked at the bunny and considered what I'd done, I remembered how my Dad, when we lived in a more rural area in New Jersey, was one time mowing our lawn and killed a family of mice. I recalled him often speaking about it through the years, how bad he felt, and although a family of mice (or a mouse) are often looked upon with much annoyance and seem somewhat more of a pest and troublesome than a bunny, I could relate. This was a first for me. I paused for a few moments, and then my mind now turned to burial. I grabbed a rarely used shovel, two thin twigs, and headed to the spot in our yard that serves as a final resting place for baby and adult sparrows and a few other deceased bunnies: underneath our corner Forsythia bush. Large in height and width, it provides shade for a great portion of our side yard, and shields one from noisy traffic that zooms by on the busy street where our home sits. I placed the bunny down, and quickly dug with the shovel, following that up by scooping additional dirt from the earth with my gloved hands, seeking to make this grave, as I had with the prior ones, some source of comfort. The hole finally at a good depth, I slowly and softly placed the bunny down inside it, ensuring still that its life had ceased (and I wished that I could turn back time - had waited to do the lawn so that maybe the bunnies would have moved on safely), and made a cross from the two twigs, placing it atop the bunny. After that, while competing with but somewhat oblivious to sparrow tweets and car noise, I prayed: "Dear Lord, please pray for this bunny now with you in Heaven. It was an accident, Lord, but I feel so bad about it. All it wanted was fresh air, and I killed it. It never had a real chance of life here on earth, and now it's gone. May it play with the other bunnies that have been buried in this and other spots in our yard, and please forgive me, Lord." I followed this prayer up with an Our Father and Hail Mary, then covered the bunny with any dirt and stones I had dug up, and then placed another tiny cross on the grave. Since I had committed, albeit innocently, the act, I needed extra blessing for this quiet, shaded spot. So, what's the lesson here? I tried to grasp it as I started mowing again, but it took a while. It eventually unveiled itself to me. In life, we are going to lose something or someone. It could be a pet, a considerable bank account, a loved one, car, a client or business...whatever. And sometimes that is an awful feeling. There's maybe even a little guilt that permeates your being. The key is you rise -- as I did from my kneeling position after burying the bunny -- and get back to life. You must believe that, no matter how bad things seem, no matter how sad, the answer is not in staying down, but in rising, recalling what has gone before, honoring who and what was, and realizing that, for you (in this case me) you still have your time here. You do what you must. I did. During Saturday evening Mass, I received Holy Communion in honor of the baby bunny. We've both moved on. Steve
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Steve Sears is a New Jersey based freelance writer
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