All About the Muffins

We have bunnies. I think that we are on the third litter (litter?) this year. The first only yielded two, the cutest bunny ever (Foo Foo) and the doomed black bunny who I took to the vet and could not be saved. The next batch was much bigger and some of them are strangely fluffy. The big tan male seems to be the father of them all. His name is Trump (I swear that I did not name him) because he has ugly hair. He is tan but with weird black bits, as if the tan did not entirely know what to do with the black. How to incorporate those incongruent colors. These guys have gotten a bit bigger and my son is calling them the toddler bunnies. And then we have the most recent batch. When they first come out of where they were born, they are very skittish. Any sound sends them bolting for cover. They are so small that we have taken to calling them muffins. As in, “please make sure there are no muffins under my car.” And the muffins, despite their skittishness, do not run out from under the car when it is started. They kind of just wait. I worry that I will pull out and there will be a flattened muffin there. *shudder*

What I have discovered is that baby bunnies could be just what this world is looking for. We had a guy today to come and look at the water pump. He knocked on my door and asked if I could move my car. He was an older gentleman with a John Bolton (the hawkish National Security Adviser) mustache. I grabbed my keys and went down. He was in the barn chasing baby bunnies. We had a really great conversation about said bunnies. He has a full grown one and described it an “eating” one. It’s his daughter’s. His daughter who is going to Hawaii shortly to be with her Mattituck HS graduated boyfriend who is in the Marine Corps. I told him that I knew a lot of women who had gone to Hawaii, only to be broken up with. I know, not my finest comment. He said that that is what he was worried about but had told her that they would get her a ticket to come back any time. I told him that many women that I knew had gone under the same circumstances, ended up single and then stayed. I failed to tell him that was my story.

After dinner I was sitting up on my chair amidst my plants and a truck pulled in past my place. At some point, a younger guy walked past with a big container of something strapped to his back (ala ghostbusters). He started walking purposefully somewhere but then stopped and pulled out his phone. I realized that he was taking footage of the muffins. Muscly worker guy. Baby bunnies. Stopped him in his tracks.

There is just something universally appealing about the muffins. They like to eat the little clover flowers in the grass and suck them up like spaghetti till the white tip of the flower disappears into their teeny mouths. It is the kind of thing that causes uncontrollable human cooing.

I think it is what could solve all the world’s problems. Maybe if the real John Bolton had to frolic with a roomful of muffins before engaging in any dialogue about Iran. Maybe all of the Democratic candidates should have a teeny bunny on the podium with them, feeding them clover as they answer questions about pre-existing health conditions. And if there are leaders who you can’t fathom wanting to do such a thing, ooo-ing and ah-ing over a baby bunny, well then, maybe you should think twice about supporting that leader. Baby bunnies, making the world great one meeting at a time.

Advertisements

About nematomorph

Living like the rich and famous, splitting time between Hawaii and New York.
This entry was posted in New York, Relationships, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s