My daughter and her family are coming to visit
And this old boomer is freaking out
Big house. Check. Floors swept and mopped. Check. Everyone has a place to sleep. Check.
Grocery list. Check.
Mom, dad, baby Chloe get the guest room. Check.
Eleven-year old Emma and her five-year old brother, Cassius, are not “getting along” so Miss Emma will get a cot in my drawing studio. Check. Shades. Check. I-Mac. Check. And phone chargers. Check.
They’ll be here this coming weekend and I want to make sure we’re ready so I texted Emma’s super mom, my wonderful adult daughter, my list of 4,897 questions. “I know you’re busy with 3 kids and your hi-powered jobs and all your volunteer stuff and getting ready for the roadtrip but how many Q-Tips will you need? Should we stock up on Popsicles or Gelato or both? Red or White wine or both? Does Joe still like Stella Artois?”
I hit send. Across the breakfast table Ellen rolled her sweet morning eyes and after a slow sip of coffee she gave me her best We-got-this-We’ll-be-fine-You-should-just-Chill look, set her cup in the sink, gave me a peck, an “I love you” and headed out and off to work at the bookstore.
I went for a walk in the desert around our hacienda, collected firewood and schemed a scavenger hunt for the kids. I’m sure the Bobcat turds will be a big hit. After plotting the scavenger hunt I took an inventory of the swimming pool floats and swept floating islands of ochre palo verde leaves out of the pool. After hanging the metal pole with the dripping leaf catcher back on its hooks, I stood there and welcomed the stillness of the air and studied the deep purple shadows of Pima Canyon in the distance beneath a pale blue sky. Immersed in chattering birdsong I felt interconnected with the world in awe of the Santa Catalinas and free of petty worries, free of self, insignifcant, contented beyond measure.
And then I looked down into the pool and in the water next to me I saw a dead baby ducking with long legs bobbing about in the water. Face down.
I grabbed the butterfly net and scooped it out and saw it was not a duckling but a tiny jackrabbit—a very tiny jackrabbit— and it did not appear to be breathing.
I was weary of so much death lately, losing too many friends and pets to the inevitable. I ranted at myself for such a childish pointless lament as I fumbled with my catch.
A few days back I saw our very bad kitty bat two Mourning dove hatchlings out of their nest. I was horrified and resigned. I sentenced the murderous feline to home arrest.
Ell would not leave the chicks to die. Garden gloves on, Saint Ellen scooped the duo up and onto a makeshift nest she’d set atop an insurmountable ladder “ where the cats can’t get them and maybe their mom will …”
Saint Ellen’s words trailed off because we knew her kindness was futile. The tiny scaffold Ell made for the fledglings reminded me of the elaborate tree scaffolds the Black Feet people make for their honored dead. The next morning I set them out in the desert for the scavengers. You become accustomed to the endless churn of death and life in this beautiful and lethal place.
Holding my very tiny bunny in the netting I pleaded with it to breathe. “Come on, buddy.” I juggled it face down and rubbed its back and pleaded and exhaled in its tiny face and pleaded some more. “Come on, buddy.” Nothing. I gently rolled it back and forth. I saw its nose wiggle. I saw it open its tiny goldfish-sized mouth and gulp for air. “Come on, buddy. Breath! Breathe…”
I thought of all the injured birds, pets, rodents, bugs and critters I’ve watch die in my hand. A lifetime of “dad duty” and “foundling farewells” and “tender triages” helplessly watching until the last breath. Not today. Just this once. Give me a break.
It took another breath and another and closed its eyes. I jostled it again. “No you don’t.”
I took it up to our porch and my son David marveled over it with me and we thought we saw it breathe and then I called my neighbor, C.P., and she brought advice, a big cage with straw and contact info for the wildlife center and I got a heating blanket and towels and we made a comfortable, dark, warm shelter for whoever it was we were saving.
Who were we saving?
Jacquelyn Jackrabbit? Jack Bunny?
Beatrix? Bugs? Janice? Prince Harry the Hare? Lady Lepus?
C.P., Christie, had never seen “Night of the Lepus”. As she swaddled Beatrix- or was it Bugs?- on her lap I told her all about it. “It’s about this Arizona rancher who breeds giant mutant jackrabbits that go on a killing rampage...I guess.. nibbling everything in their path…Janet Leigh and Rory Calhoun are in it. It was filmed here and at Old Tucson. Did you ever see the one about the giant tarantulas?”
"Night of the Lepus" movie trailer
Christie, laser-focused on her patient, said the tiny jackrabbit was warming at last. I saw its eyes were shut. “Is it resting or dying?”
“Who knows?”
I knew we weren’t going to return it to back out there where the antelope play and the apex predators roam. We set the swaddled one atop a bedding of straw with a heating pad on low in the big cage. We set the cage on a desk in my studio and draped it. Ellen brought lettuce to our flop-eared guest from Ferngully. Our failed Olympic swimmer. I killed the lights and we hoped for the best for the bunny small enough to fit in your hand.
In the morning we found bright eyes fully recovered sitting on top of the straw over the modestly heated blanket, ears at attention, nose wiggling, surrounded by poop pellets.
“I’ll text Christie the good news about Lazarus the Lepus.”
“Lucy the Lepus. So cute!”
“The true Easter Bunny. The one that couldn’t walk on water.”
On the way to the car we joked about keeping it. “The grandkids would love this butterball.” On a cloudless Sunday morning we took Betty or Benito or Beatrix Beezelbub Van Bunny to the Tucson Wildlife Center- which was across town, or as we Northwesterners describe it “on the other side of the planet.”
Having traversed the Old Pueblo we were finally on east Speedway, speeding past horse ranches and mesquite bosques, with our bad baby bunny basking in the backseat, the blue Rincon Mountains in front of us, feeling good about ourselves. I said to Ell, “All this gas money just to save one jack rabbit…when I think of all the bunnies that have died on our property through the years it’s… ironic we’d go to this trouble…” I paused and then I said, ”It’s worth it, right? It’s Karma. Think of all the random bunnies our cats have killed…that our pool has killed…”
“The bunny suicides…”
“Not to mention the roadkills.”
“You know, they’re not endangered.”
“Well, this one’s going to live, have a huge family and grow old and wise. Maybe even live 2-years or even 3.”
We set the cage on the intake desk under the porch entrance to the wildlife center where a wonderful woman greeted us and our cargo and asked us for some information.
(I toured The Tucson Wildlife Center years ago. Abrazos to the vets and volunteers! Saw their nurseries, clinics, resident bobcats, javelina and I will never forget the stunning sight of the albino quail. I thought I was seeing a Sonoran spirit animal. Who knew that among the desert Gods there is one that’s a plump clucking white bird with red eyes?)
As the kind lady took down the who, when, where and what of our critter I noticed a board listing the critters taken in since the year began. I found the category “cottontails” and I saw we were bringing in Number 168. Ellen donated to the donation jar as the nice lady took in our foundling.
I will miss you #168. May you have 168 offspring.
When we got home, I fetched the shovel and plugged all the gaps beneath our fence. I toasted #168 and our rabbit-proofed pool with lemonade.
Coincidentally, 168 is the number of questions I have left to list for my daughter and her family who are all due to splash down this weekend in our bunny-free pool.
Daughter and Joe and Emma-Cassius-Chloe—here are your “Activity Choices”:
(Pick 3.)
Chill on our back porch, enjoy the pool while grandpa and grandma Ellen kidnap Emma, Cass and Chloe and force them to appreciate our desert until they hate us.
Stroll the Arizona Sonora Desert Museum. Followed by ice cream at the Dairy Queen on 4th Avenue so I can remind them to pay attention in school or they’ll end up homeless panhandling addicts.
Scavenger hunt, find grandpa’s car keys again.
Zoo followed by feeding ducks followed by a Sunday Pops Concert under the Stars followed by me complaining about the bugs and listing diseases ducks carry.
Swing on the swing I hung from the old giant mesquite and visit the local Emergency Room. See where grandpa goes when he bumps into things.
Nerf gun fights. I’ll tell you about the Vietnam years.
Break out the crate filled with ancient Legos. We’ll build a “Taj Mahal” devoted to #168.
Good luck picking only three activities. Can’t wait!
And on the last night of your visit I will definitely make a mesquite wood pit fire under the stars so Emma, Cassius and Chloe can run from the cool swimming pool to the crackling mesquite fire and back. We’ll make s’mores and we’ll giggle and laugh and once the coyotes stop yip yip yipping out beyond the fence I’ll look into the fire and if you’re lucky I will tell you the entire amazing true tale of Benito Beatrix Van Bunny, the baby cottontail that lived.
Your writing (what a talent) brought me right there with you, on that emotional adventure! Thanks for your writing and progressive voice!!
Thank you for the gift of your writing and the joy it brings to read.