- - - ■ Steve
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My pet rabbit was the image of immorality
Recently, at my house just off
Vine Street, I’ve been noticing a
family of rabbits foraging through the
damp beer cans and rusty lawn
mowers outside.
I can only
assume they’re
searching for
whatever it is
rabbits forage for
nowadays,
probably cattle.
Needless
to say, I’m not
particularly fond
of this notion of
rabbits in my backyard. You see, I’ve
had an inherent fear of rabbits since
my early childhood.
It all stems from an Easter gift I
got when I was 9. That year, I
desperately wanted colored baby
chickens that, at the time* were
famous for their ability to survive for
more than three hours without the aid
of an artificial respirator.
I thought I had a fairly good shot
at getting the chicks, because they
could be purchased cheaply from a
man in my hometown. The only
problem was that the same man was
missing all of his teeth, suffered from
not-so-simple chronic halitosis and
called everyone “Cletus.”
It must have been enough to
discourage my parents, because what
I got was not a colored chicken but a
snow-white rabbit with fire-red eyes.
(Author’s note: They are properly
referred to as “Albanian Rabbits.”) I
named him “Bun-Bun.”
As a baby, Bun-Bun was the
cutest little creature. He hopped
around and munched carrots from my
hand. And when I stapled him to the
blades of a moving ceiling fan, he
would make the most adorable little
noises.
But as Bun-Bun approached
puberty, he began to horribly mutate.
Now, for all of God’s creatures,
puberty marks the physical change of
the adolescent body into adulthood.
During this time, human males, for
example, will experience a lowering
of the voice and are likely to become
sexually aroused every time someone
slams a car door too hard.
Male rabbits, however, deal with
puberty differently. For example,
Bun-Bun chose to deal with his
body’s changes by mating with
everything in his path. This rabbit
would mate with EVERYTHING,
completely disregarding gender,
species and whether or not the object
of his affections was plugged into an
electrical outlet. This animal was the
rodential equivalent of Joey
Buttafuocco.
Seventeen times my family and I
watched in horror as Bun-Bun
attempted to conquer our Golden
Retriever, Skippy. (I’m sad to say
Bun-Bun was successful most of the
time. To this day, Skippy still won’t
put down the shotgun he stole from
our house.)
My father always tells a story that
has become legend in the Willey
household. I’ll include it because I
think it exemplifies Bun-Bun’s
obsession with sex.
Legend has it that one morning
my father was greeting the day like
he did every morning: in the nude, on
the rooftop and doing his “Donkey
Yell.” High atop my family’s home,
he could see for miles. In the
distance, Dad noticed the outline of a
white rabbit lying stiff in the grass.
Taking the rabbit for dead, my father
skipped — as he always did when he
was nude — over to the lifeless body.
“Awww,” Dad said in mock anguish.
“Dumb rabbit was too homy for his
own good!”
When Dad arrived however, Bun
Bun sprang to his feet. He shot Dad a
disgusted look and hopped away, all
the while mumbling about how Dad
had scared away the buzzards. (Get
it! He was gonna SCREW the...
AWWWW, forget it.)
Now if being homy was Bun
Bun’s only fault, I’d have no prob
lems with the animal. After all, I’ve
been labeled as “a perpetually homy
human” by several Supreme Court
justices. How could I blame him for
that? But Bun-Bun had other
problems. Anyone who has ever
owned a male rabbit can back me up
on this one: Male rabbits really, and I
mean REALLY, enjoy urinating on
things.
At first, I thought it was just a
means of marking territory: “I claim
Steve’s nose and all it’s subsidiary
rights, in the name of Bun-Bun !”
But later I found out that this is
actually how male rabbits show
affection. It’s true! Ask any veteri
narian.
Needless to say, Bun-Bun
luuuuuuuved our family—especially
my father. It is because of Bun-Bun’s
frequent drenches, that my father still
drives 132 miles to dump the
family’s trash on the front steps of
PETA’s main offices.
I will forever remember my father
prying open the latch to Bun-Bun’s
cage with a pool cue and running so
frantically that he looked more like a
human tornado than a father or
husband. “You lousy, rotten BAS
TARD,” he’d scream while heaving
himself through a closed window.
As you can no doubt see, living
with Bun-Bun has given me a strange
fear of all rabbits. I’m still not quite
sure what to do with the family
residing in my backyard.
Hiding behind the curtains in my
room doesn’t seem to be working as
well as I had initially thought.
But it sure beats the hell out of
confronting Satan.
Willey is a senior news-editorial
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist »- vi3' ;
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This animal was the rodential
equivalent of Joey Buttafuocco.”
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