The Aftermath Of A Lepucide

“Say a few words about the departed, would you?”

“No, I can’t say I know any that would do him justice.”

“Her.”

“Really, how can you tell?”

“Just say something.”

Vanessa lowered her head and began the eulogy.

“I met her not too long ago and our time together was brief. I’m led to believe that she was a prairie rabbit due to the majestic pelt she left behind. She was a good bunny, a sturdy bunny, ultimately though, she was a stupid bunny.”

Eric looked at Vanessa with contempt aplenty.

“You will not be saying my eulogy.”

“If we’re going to stay out here could you at least turn off the ignition. I think you’ve killed enough of the environment today.”

Eric ran back to the car. The radio paused for a second but then returned. Eric was running back with shovels that he for some reason had in the trunk.

“Eric, please tell me you’re not planning to inter the wild rabbit.”

“It won’t take that long, I just want to give it about four feet.”

“Oh no, if I walk down this crazy road we’ll be making a tombstone for her too.”

“I grabbed a permanent marker while I was in the car.”

“For god sake, what makes you think a rabbit would even want to be buried.”

“They live in the ground, makes sense.”

“And I live in a house, doesn’t mean I want to be buried there.”

“But a lot of people are buried in houses.”

“You know what, fine. Your car, your murder, your funeral.”

They dug and dug deep. Vanessa said goodbye to her very nice shoes and chucked them in with the grocery bag full of bunny.

“Something occurs to me.”

“That I’m a murder and a terrible person?”

“Well that and I seem to recall that prairie rabbits are pretty rare.”

Suddenly Eric eyes welled up and he looked about to burst.

“Oh cripes, Eric you didn’t kill the last prairie rabbit. “

He was incredulous.

“Just give me that plank and the marker. I’ll finish up, wait in the car.”

“Promise to say something nice.”

“Sure, sure.”

It took about ten minutes for Vanessa to return. As shut the door Vanessa looked at Eric in such a way that Eric was sure if he did not start the car, she would dig another grave. Slowly they made there way to the interstate, the less scenic route where Eric could murder fewer woodland creatures.

“Do you think bunnies go to heaven?”

“Eric, I’m an atheist.”

“But still, raw deal.”

“I’m sure she’s in a better place now.”

Somewhere in the northwest of the United States, there is a rather large grave marker for a rather small animal. It reads:

Here Lies A Bunny

?-2011

She died as she lived,

smaller than a Honda Accord

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