The Bunnyman Cometh

It's not intentional, but I've probably given the impression that my Bunnyman is sweet and gentle, and never causes any fuss... in the interests of truth (justice? the American way?) I give you this excerpt from our lives.

Today, the Bunnyman and I went to the park.  It's a nice park, full of grass and trees and shrubs and flowers; so I take my inhaler, when I remember, and when I don't, I sneeze and wheeze and struggle to breath, and just generally have difficulty keeping up with my little angels.  Today, though, I remembered, and so I marched bravely onward, my salbutamol at the ready, to the most exciting area of the park--the duck pond.

If you've heard my tales before, you may recall the duck pond; it is a duck pond of mythic proportions (at least in my mind) made so by my legendary daughter, when my Bunnyman was still only small.  Today, he is big, big I tell you; and even as his sister before him used to seek out  the pond with supreme surety of purpose, his purpose was sure.

My Gabriel.  My little lamb.  My Bunnyman.

You have a new nickname--from henceforth, you shall be known as The Pigeon-Stomper.

Today, my smiling, gentle-handed, softly-spoken son was *screaming* with laughter as he ran up and down the paved area beside the duck pond, arms outstretched, feet clopping like a Clydesdale's, as he gleefully attacked hordes of pigeons with those same, ferocious feet.  You may tell yourself, if you wish, that he was just exhibiting his joy at being outside, his natural, childlike exuberance at the sight of winged creatures, his over-abundance of energy at being let out into a huge, open space; you may even be able to convince yourself that he was simply scattering the pigeons, so he could watch them fly, and wasn't trying to hit them at all.

I can tell myself no such comforting lies.  I was there.  I *saw* him.  And I tell you, his manic mayhem, his riotous revelry, his egregious ecstasy, culminated when he finally brought his sneaker-clad foot down, crunch, on the back of a somewhat rotund, less-sprightly-than-his-fellows, pigeon.  It was without doubt the highlight of my son's day, as that poor, bruised, petrified little pigeon waddled off, gait even more unsteady than usual, squawking unmelodious indignation with every shaky step.

I laughed.  God forgive me, I laughed, and I didn't even go get a park warden.  I just led my son over to my daughter, who was communing with the seagulls in her customary ritual--I don't even know why we call it the duck pond, we barely look at the ducks--and we took out some bread, and offered it skyward to my daughter's flying compatriots, as we tried to ignore the sound of 200 pigeons cooing surreptitiously, plotting their revenge. 

They can plot.  They can murmur.  They can coo their disgust to the skies--but my son is stronger and more boisterous every day, and I have a friendly warning for them:

Run! No, for godsakes, pigeons, fly!  Fly away!  The next time you see the shining golden mop of my son's untamed hair, take wing, and don't look down... for when you hear that characteristic, high-pitched, giggling inhalation of breath you shall know that THE BUNNYMAN COMETH; and his boots, although small, are made for stomping.

The End

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