This morning on my walk from the side door of the house to the side door of the garage, I noticed their tiny prints down the driveway, spritely loop-the-looping under and around Justin’s car, towards the backyard gate.
I imagine a single-file column of bunnies queued there at the gate ’round 1 a.m., waiting to get into the most happenin’ party on the block. Through the fence they can catch glimpses of other bunnies, the lucky bunnies, on the dance floor inside. (The snow in our backyard is covered with the evidence of their fancy footwork, the remnants of the foxtrot, conga, limbo, hokey pokey, and rumba.)
Every bunny who’s any bunny is there.
The red carpet rolls out, and the uppity and elite bunnies make their way to the front of the line, where the bouncer bunny lets them through straight away. Two nervous teenage bunnies clutch tiny fake IDs, hoping no one will realize that they couldn’t possibly be 103-year-old Peter Rabbit and 101-year-old Benjamin Bunny. Three ill-disguised squirrels in bunny costumes nonchalantly try to blend in. Four twenty-something hopefuls bribe and barter their way in with carrots and cabbage. They want to meet a few bigshots and make a name for themselves in the great big bunny world, and they know that this party, this night, holds the utmost of possibilities.