Inadvertently, I’ve found myself in possession of a new job — lawn mowing.
It started simply enough — our wonderful yard man informed us back in the winter months that he needed knee surgery and wouldn’t be able to mow for us this summer.
After calling around, we found a “substitute.” Unfortunately, this man’s work paled in comparison. He wouldn’t edge, wouldn’t weed-eat, wouldn’t sweep the sidewalk and driveway afterward. He refused to show up until at least 10 days had passed (in the summer, our lawn needs cutting at least every 5 days). He wasn’t agreeable to planting extra shrubs, and he charged a ridiculous amount to clean the gutters.
So I volunteered to mow between his regular appearances, spelling him off, as it were.
A week or two passed, then My Favorite Domer arrived home for summer break. Hearing about the problem, he offered to spell me off and climbed aboard the riding mower, heading for our backyard.
He’d made a few rounds when I noticed the humming had ceased. Next, I heard the back door slam.
Uh-oh, I thought.
Fearing the worst, I ran to the kitchen.
My son was white-faced and shaking. “I think I just decapitated a baby bunny,” he told me.
Now I love bunnies. And I hate the thought of a bunny in trouble. Knowing I couldn’t look at what I expected was a gory scene, I told him to take a shovel, scoop up the remains, and toss them far into the field behind the house — far enough away to prevent our Sheltie from feasting on a bunny dinner.
He wouldn’t do it, said he couldn’t. When he appealed to his grandmother, she took care of bunny’s “burial.”
And when he begged me to finish mowing the back yard at least — where mother bunnies invariably safeguard their little ones in ridiculously shallow nests, despite the adult Sheltie who regularly patrols the area — I agreed.
How could I not?
He was so upset and at least for now, has condescended to mow the front yard, assuming that no bunny nests are tucked away there.
I guess I’ll earn that job, too, should he ever see another bunny pop up from its hole!