The other day I got called at work to go dispose of some bunnies. This is, I think, the third time I’ve been asked to remove baby bunnies from the playground area because the kids become . . . well, let’s say barbaric. I’m not sure why baby bunnies like to come hang out at this place.
I got a five gallon bucket and some vinyl gloves. I’m no expert in the handling of baby wildlife, but I didn’t want to put my “human stink” all over them. Is it baby birds that will get kicked out the nest if you handle them? I wasn’t sure, so I donned the gloves and began picking them up to put in the bucket for transport. Of course there were already a dozen or so 7 to 8 year olds swarming around the nest like a bunch of raptors waiting to kill.
“Let me see the bunnies!”
“I didn’t get to see the bunnies!”
“What are you doing with the bunnies!?!?!?”
“I WANT TO SEE THE BUNNIES!!!”
I think, “Where the bloody hell are the teachers?”
Kids are now grabbing the top of the bucket trying to pull it down. It becomes a tug-of-war between me and the kids. They are like a pack of rabid hyenas. I am almost scared for my own life. I look around for a person with authority over the horde. Oh, there they are, sitting on the playground bench. No help . . . Looks like me and the bunnies are going to have to fight our way out. I start walking and the mob moves with me.
“I need everyone to calm down, please. I’ve got to take the bunnies somewhere safe.” My pleas fall on deaf adolescent ears.
Meanwhile, the poor bunnies are trying to hop out of the bucket. They are freaking the F out. I’m seriously scared that one of them is going to take a suicide swan dive from 4 feet in the air or, worse yet, land on a kid. Good Lord! Don’t let a flying bunny land on one of the kids, please! I don’t want to be involved with the paperwork and the parents for that.
“Ok, guys,” I say to the kids, “Ya’ll need to calm down. You’re scaring the bunnies. I need everyone to quiet down now, please.”
“Are you going to kill the bunnies?!? Why are you going to kill the bunnies?!?!?!?”
“I’m not going to kill the bunnies. I’m trying to keep you guys from hurting them.”
“I want to touch the bunnies,” says one.
“Me, too! Me, too!” says many more.
“No one is going to touch the bunnies. I’m sorry.” I keep walking, but it’s like trying to move through a herd of cows without starting a stampede.
I make it to the back of the school and the mob is still with me. I stop. “Ok. Everyone needs to go back to the playground, please.” Nothing. They are moving toward me and the bunnies like zombies with blood lust. “Back to the playground! I need everyone to go back to their teachers!” I say in a voice of desperation and dread. I’m really wondering what to do. I mean, parents have come up to this place to complain because their high schooler didn’t receive a mylar Valentine balloon. I really don’t feel like dealing with a parent because I either did or did not allow their unruly youngster to fondle some bunnies.
Finally, I hear one of the teachers calling for the kids to return. Good, they heard me shrieking. I look over and they appear to be laughing. It was all entertainment for them. The rabble begins to dissipate. There are still some stragglers, however. I stand there holding this white five-gallon bucket with 3 bunnies in it with not less than 10 kids still screaming to see, touch, and hold the bunnies.
After what feels like an eternity, the teachers finally get ALL the kids to head back over to the playground.
“What a bunch of barbarians,” I say to myself as I go to put the bunnies in a safe place.