Brain Wreck

This spring I became a sort of pseudo caretaker/parent of a handsome wild rabbit who lived somewhere on my property. I think that he was dug in somewhere beneath my garden shed, or he could have just been hanging out in the grass or the bushes. I’m not well-versed in rabbit psychology. That doesn’t really matter. Whatever the point of origin, I would see him happily hopping around my yard every morning, and after a while I would go out to survey the damage. Our deal, apparently, was that I would continue to plant things, and my little rabbit friend would continue to treat my yard like his personal bunny buffet.
I called my handsome rabbit friend Wendell. I named him after my favorite uncle who was a source of great amusement to me when I was a child. My Uncle Wendell, who was a bait-and-tackle shop clerk by trade, would spend every weekend sitting in his favorite chair, watching whatever might be on TV, and drinking from a case of canned beer that he would set beside his chair and consume as the day went on. The beer was never put on ice. As the beer slowly disappeared, Uncle Wendell morphed into the funniest man on the planet. Well, that’s what I thought when I was six years old. When I was a bit older, my only concern was to get to Uncle Wendell’s house while the beer was still cold. It was a good long bike ride, but by the time I was thirteen I could knock it out in a couple of minutes. Yeah, but that’s another story for another time.
Anyway, my arrangement with Wendell the rabbit went on for some time. It seemed that all was fairly right in our little world until last Wednesday. That morning, when I walked out into my yard to survey the damage, I was shocked when I spotted the very flattened body of my little friend Wendell in the middle of the street. Well, actually it was just a grease spot and some hair, but I recognized that grease and hair immediately. I think that sometime around 4:00 a.m. that morning, which is usually the time of garbage pickup and Wendell’s first morning snack, Wendell had a most unfortunate meeting with the trash truck. The meeting, alas, did not turn out well for my little rabbit friend.
Poor Wendell. He is survived by Delores, his wife of two years, and 1,650 children. RIP WENDELL.

Trash Truck DashCam Photo-Compliments of Steve Bruce and Family.