This year has been a bumper crop for bunny rabbits chez Jingo. Can't walk from house to garage without tripping over one. I just made the trip up there for liquid refreshment, and a bunny sat in my way, glaring insolently, like a soccer hooligan at a referee. As I walked, it moved just enough to get out of my way, and sat its ass back down in the grass. Insulted -- I thought I was a bit more threatening to the property's leporine population than that -- I moved toward it again. Again, it moved just enough to get out of my way, and then plunked its fat little ass down in the grass.
That's it. I'm going Farmer MacGregor on their asses. Ate my whole cucumber crop last year, little bastards. An exemplary rabbit stew with spring vegetables begins to take shape in my perfervid mind. I will leave it, untouched, by the forsythia under which they camp.
Also, them lazy-assed dogs are going to get a very firm talking to. If I have to resort to the words of Captain Nolan at the Battle of Balaclava -- "There, sir, is your enemy!" then that is what I shall have to do. I take no pleasure in it. No satisfaction.
Time to man up.