This morning I suited up for bunny retrieval. Mask, small towel, gloves — though since we don't seem to own normal disposable gloves, I used John's disposable BBQ nitrile ones. Shhh. I don't think he'd approve. Typically I use winter gloves and wash them afterward, but I simply wasn't in the mood. I should also Lysol my shoes. There are a lot of field mice bones down there, and where there are field mice, there is field mice poop, and possibly the invisible, dreaded hantavirus — which I never gave a second thought to until Gene Hackman's wife, Betsy Arakawa, died cleaning out an infested shed.
I should probably explain that "down there" is the window pit outside our basement. Most window pits have some kind of screen or cover to prevent them from serial-killing small rodents. For some reason, our landlord doesn't see this as a priority. I suppose I should just be grateful he finally replaced our microwave, an appliance second only to the dishwasher for securing my quality of life. Anyway. This is how I've become the designated bunny rescuer. John reports the fallen from his basement office, which has a front-row view of the victims. This is maybe the fourth or fifth one I've retrieved, which may also explain why, after John told me about this one yesterday, I completely forgot until 6:30 this morning, lying in bed, luxuriating in that sweet stretch of time between waking up and actually doing anything about it — when I remembered. SHIT. BUNNY. I was sure my middle-aged brain had cost him his life. And honestly, when I climbed down there and he didn't move, I thought it had. Luckily, his breathing and a slight nose twitch gave him away.
He's on the back porch now, where all the little guys who are too scared, tired, and dehydrated to hop frantically away go to recover. I've put out water and some foliage to help him along.
The hardest part of bunny retrieval is leaving them alone. I might as well be eight years old. I just want to run out there and cuddle him. As far as I'm concerned, nothing in this world is softer or cuter than a baby bunny, and my kids are well aware that in a side-by-side comparison, I just might pick the bunny. It's taking every ounce of my limited self-control not to go bother him. Even Lauren poked her head out to admire this one — small white spot on his head, very handsome. But all my adoration would accomplish is stressing the poor guy out further, possibly giving him a bunny heart attack. He might end up snatched by a hawk or coyote out on the prairie, and I can live with that. My jurisdiction ends at getting him out of the pit. I keep peeking through the sliding glass door anyway, even though I know from experience it's too early for him to risk leaving the small, nest-like comfort of the towel.
Something about this whole situation feels a lot like my oldest daughter, who's in college and moved into her first apartment with friends a few weeks ago. It coincided with a new job at the King Soopers nearby — early shifts she has to manage entirely on her own. I keep wanting to mess with her, and I know how much she hates mornings. Both her roommates are sick. School starts in less than two weeks. Even by Colorado standards it's hot right now, and all her Soviet-bloc-style apartment has is a plug-in AC unit in the living room. There are just as many hawks and coyotes threatening her success as there are threatening the bunny's. Only, unlike the bunny, I feel like all of this falls squarely in my jurisdiction. It doesn't, though. I have to use every bit of self-control I have to let her find her own way.
I just looked out at the back porch in time to catch a tiny cottontail scampering off. No hawks yet.
Aaaw, my brother and I once did something like this for a small bird that had been sitting in the back yard, seemingly unafraid of us, but appearing dazed and confused.
(We don't have these window pits in The Netherlands, basements are not common here).
The tiny bird's body felt cold and humid, so we wondered if the bird had issues keeping warm after getting wet for some reason and called the animal ambulance for advice.
They gave us some pointers to make a little shelter, making sure cats couldn't reach in but the bird could get out, and dug up 4-5 rainworms.
We were told to just leave the situation alone for 4-5 hours.
When we checked after 4-5 hours, the bird was still there, but the rainworms weren't: so at least the bird had eaten.
Because it was now 11 in the evening and getting dark, we left the shelter in place. The next morning we found the bird had flown out. We found a little pouch that the bird had made of the little piece of fabric we put inside, apparently wrapping it around it's body to help with evaporating the moisture in it's tiny feathers, and warming back up ready for a new day.
Excellent, Jeanett. Thanks.