Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
-Mary Oliver

02 October, 2011

Operation Freedom

I had a visitor arrive on Thursday night.  It came in the form of lots of squeaking noises and occasional thumping on my window.  I figured that it was a small animal trapped in my window well, but it was already dark, so I couldn't see anything.  I looked again in the morning; still no sign.  Oh, good I thought.  It must've gotten out.  Come Friday evening, when I got home from work around 6, I looked out the window and saw this:


First things first, I figured the poor little fella was thirsty so I gave him some water and some apple and tomato pieces, lest he perish while I formulated a "Free Clive" plan (I thought I should call him something other than "stupid little bunny").  I called my parents house, thinking that this didn't really qualify as an emergency so I shouldn't call the "After Hours Emergency" maintenance number.  No one was home so I was on my own.  There were some feeble attempts to reach out and grab him, but they were unsuccessful, and soon it was getting dark again.


My folks called back around 10. I told them each the predicament separately. My dad said "You have to get it out of there right away, it'll be thirsty, wear gloves if you touch it, and don't name it" and my mom said "Oh, cute, they like oats, and what do you call it". Apart from being a little offended that my dad didn't think I'd be clever enough to give it water, I was very amused by their opposing reactions. Their plans for freeing Clive, however, all revolved around me owning a chair or ladder. Turns out, I own neither of those things. So we hung up and I told Clive he'd have to wait another night.  I supplied more food and suggested he find a comfy spot on the rocks.


Morning came, and with it hope.

Plan One:  Cartoon style trail of food leading into a box.


Clive was like, "Bitch, please."

You might have to click to get a good look at Clive's face.  He was super unimpressed...

Plan Two:  Removed screen, climbed out and fashioned a ramp.


That freaked Clive right out, and he went and cowered by my window.


Five minutes later he was still there, so I opened the window to nudge him towards his escape route, but poor Clive resisted any type of movement, trapped in metaphorical headlights.  Since the opportunity was there, I grabbed it.  And him.


Clearly, despite my father's advice, I did not wear gloves whilst handling the ickle baby bunny.  On a brief tangent, bunnies are soft.  I understand that.  I don't understand how you can look at a little guy like Clive and say "I'm going to remove its skin and make it into mittens!  And let's cut off its feet for good luck while we're at it!"  But I digress.



So I tucked Clive in a box with a slice of tomato (a gesture of good will, as he was somewhat startled by his new environment), and we headed off to Como Park.  After a good 20 minutes of walking around looking for lots of undergrowth for him to hide in, I found this little spot. 


And without so much as a thank you, there he went.


Good luck in the park, Clive.

3 comments:

Alison Maraillet said...

I don't think you need to call your parents for advice any more - you're obviously the sensible one. (I hope you're not thinking of going back to the park to see if he's okay!)

Elizabeth said...

Oh, no. Clive is on his own now.

Mum said...

Live free, Clive. Chat up your chipmunk friends and eat plenty of clover before winter. Excellent post, Elz. Clever girl.