I stare out the kitchen window and glimpse a replica of Bonnie, our white rabbit.  The fluff disappears behind a shrub and I blink for a retake.


Karl saunters in and yawns, "What's for breakfast, Mom?"


"Rabbit," I answer, studying the bushes.


Confused, he opens the oven and checks the contents. Empty of roasting rodent, he casts me a “not-enough-caffeine-Mom” look.


"I think we have a baby bunny."  Our eyes meet and we know I'm right. Bonnie and Clyde, the rescued rabbits from the park, did what rabbits do.


“But didn’t we have the guy rabbit, you know, whacked?”


“Obviously a day late,” I sip my tepid coffee and sigh.


Eager for the hunt, he jets out the back door. I run behind him, toe deep in rabbit pills. Aren't rabbit droppings suppose to decompose I question as I wipe poop from my bare feet. 


Karl peers into the maze of green. "What color?"


"White," I answer, unenthusiastically.  


He whispers, "It's coming your way."


I hustle to the garden, duck my head into the oregano and prepare for capture.  I grasp empty air.  I stretch and shake leaves from my blonde waves, pull my robe away from my back and let the herbs flutter to the ground.


"Get down on all fours." Karl commands from the oleander post.


I go to combat and hit the ground, scuttling along the garlic and rosemary in search of the elusive white rabbit.  Trapped between the pages of Alice in Wonderland and the classic 70's tune, White Rabbit, I pause for a reality check.


I don’t do rabbits. I’m a suburbanite.


Quietly, I survey under a bush, teeter forward and land on a damp form.


“It’s dead.” I shudder and coil away.


Karl hurries over and checks the scene. Good son.


“Is this your dead bunny?” He holds up a three-inch sponge.


Speechless, I pocket the industrial-size corpse and continue my search.


"Got it," Karl shouts, cradling a baby against his chest.  


I flop on my butt and stare at the tiny baby, perplexed. "That bunny’s brown."


Stunned, I tap my finger on my dirt-studded knee and recall rabbit facts. Thirty-day gestation, thirteen kits in litter.  Thump-by-thump, I’m up to my ears in bunny butts. 


Once more, we scout the area. A veteran to the protocol, I crawl along the bushes. I wonder if they could use an extra on Mail Call. Oorah.


Well, I'll be.  A small nose peeks from a burrow.


I whisper along the tops of the herbs. "I found my rabbit." 


I'm not having caffeine hallucinations after all. We exchange looks and map our strategy.  Within minutes, we both cradle bunnies in our arms.


Mission accomplished, I trail behind my son, reeking of oregano, sage and garlic.


Karl turns and says, “About breakfast…”


"…No rabbit,” I protect my ward.


Karl strokes a kit and sniffs my direction, "Nah, something more like spaghetti.” 


"Good one, Son,” I match, and cuddle my captive.


Bring on that watermelon, R. Lee. Oorah.


            THE END