From a distance I wasn’t sure if it was a dirty mound of snow or something else. Even with binoculars, it was hard to tell; so I pressed Earl into service. After all, being a former Chicago policeman gives him the credentials to investigate potentially unsettling situations, while I prefer a more Pollyanna view of the world.
Earl slipped on his coat and strode outside, ever alert. The mound of snow did not move as he approached it. But then a true mound of snow wouldn’t. I moved on to other things until Earl returned to confirm that it was a large brown and white rabbit dead as a doornail on our front lawn. It lay about ten feet from the chicken wire.
“Can you get rid of it?” I asked, wanting to protect Pollyanna. “Scoop it up on a shovel and take it across the street to the woods?”
“I’ll take care of it,” And when he returned the second time, Earl said there was no evidence of foul play. Even with all his police training, he wasn’t able to pinpoint the cause of death.
In a way, I felt conflicted. Winter has been harsh this year, and I suspect the rabbits that live under our deck have been searching frantically for food. They’ve found it too by eating my young bushes down to the nubs, for which they’ve incurred my wrath. So we put up chicken wire around the most tender, bruised bushes. I hated to do it, but there are still plenty of other hardy bushes on the property that I’m willing to share with Mr. Rabbit and his siblings. Pollyanna isn’t so cruel that she wants them to starve. Especially in front of her window.
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