A long time ago, when Dave and I were dating, we spent a weekend house sitting for a couple with a cat and a rabbit. It was pretty much the easiest gig ever. The cat just camped out in the bedroom and the rabbit moved slowly around the living room hiding under various pieces of furniture. We watched TV and ate pizza. A quiet respite from our normal evenings spent in Dave’s dorm room with his not so subtle roommate.
Suddenly the peace was disturbed as a white rabbit came out from under the couch like a rocket. Madly hopping around the room, clearly in a state of panic. A lamp was knocked over. Magazines went flying. This rabbit was out of control.
I’d like to say that we immediately sprung into action to save this rabbit from whatever crisis it was experiencing. But there was at least a 5 second pause while we were quite frozen in our seats overwhelmed with sheer confusion. Then we gave our heads a shake and chased the rabbit (for such a chubby fellow he sure was FAST) until we could finally trap him under a chair and do a little diagnosis. It would seem that a piece of tape being used to hold down a cord under the couch had become stuck on little buddy’s paw. Stuck good. And he was not happy.
I am pleased to be able to tell you that within two minutes the paw was liberated from the clutches of the tape with only minimal fur loss but untold psychological trauma. To me. The rabbit seemed fine.
Yesterday, when I was undressing the baby before her bath I discovered an abrasion on her leg. A very raw, nearly bleeding scrape. In a blow to my bid for mother of the year, I can tell you neither how nor where she got it. She didn’t seem to bothered, but I thought I should put some ointment on it and cover it up.
I put the band-aid on. What happened next was sheer insanity.
Later when I talked to Dave on the phone, the only way I could describe her reaction to a band-aid on her skin was:
“Remember that time we were watching over that rabbit and he got some tape on his foot?”