I get the skimmer, thinking about the nasty chemicals that I will have to dump in the pool to kill off the dead rat goop that is in my pool. Then, I see that it isn’t a rat, it is a bunny. My kids are two feet behind me.
On Easter Sunday.
This oughta be great in therapy. “The first Easter I remember, my father found a dead bunny in the pool.”
Then, as I’m yelling at the kids to back away, I notice that he’s actually alive.
Dammit. Now its alive, its just going to die in front of my kids. More therapy bills.
She walks me through it… get a blow dryer, on low, with a diffuser. Dry it off and slowly raise its temperature. Now feed it kitten formula.
Kitten formula? What the fuck is that? She may as well have told me to get some PAQ M or LQ tranquilizers.
My wife recently stopped breast feeding my son. I look at her. She gives me that “you’ve got to be fucking shitting me” look. I tell her “come on, its not like you’re going to have to put the bunny’s mouth on your tit, just go pump some.” Jennifer can’t argue with that, so a few minutes later, she hands me a container with a few milliliters of Randazza brand breast milk and a small syringe.
By now, we’ve named the bunny — Pasquale.
He’s still lethargic. Until he gets the boobie milk. A little while after that, and some time in the box with a little more heat, and he’s lively as can be. In fact, uncontainable.The vet advises that if he’s strong enough to hop away, he has more of a chance of survival in the golf course brush than he does inside our house. So off he goes.
Now its a story for my kids about how their dad found a bunny on Easter, and we nursed him to health with mom’s milk.
I presume that this won’t cost me all that much in therapy bills.