The Easter Bunny is Dead

Fiver

I’m feeling sad because my baby hare just died.

We only found her half an hour ago but in that time I’d already named the precious poppet and decided on where she would sleep at night.

I’d envisioned her loping around after me whilst I cooked in the kitchen; my precious bunny sitting on my lap on the couch each evening, and the cute, baby hare, frolicking around with my Chihuahua and Fox Terrier while I was at work.

I planned to teach her circus tricks. 

I'd always wanted a bunny.

A friend advised me to take her up to the vet because she seemed to be injured. We’d come upon her in the middle of the road, huddled in a ball. There was no blood or obvious injury but her front paw was limp.

As we went into the bathroom to collect her for the vet trip, she suddenly arched her back and then died.

All my dreams of being a hare-mother disintegrated in an instant.

Poor, little Fiver.

Now there is a deceased hare in a box in my shower recess and I have no idea of where we can put the body.

I can’t put it in the freezer and the bin people don’t collect for another two (scorchingly, hot) days.

If we bury her the dogs will dig her up.

It will have to be the bin. Rigor Mortis has already set in.

Who will be bringing Easter eggs to the little children?

Nobody will.

The Easter Bunny is dead.