How do the bunnies know it’s Easter?

For me, Easter is not about the bunnies, it’s about the other stuff. You know, the Jesus stuff, the church stuff.

But the bunnies have arrived, hopping around in my yard, driving the dog in-freaking-sane. And I’m amazed at their timing: Easter weekend. Hippity-hop.

I haven’t seen any of the little ones yet, but the midsize models careening around my yard are lithe, all muscle and fur. With the windows closed, Fenway can’t catch their scent. But when they’re open, she interrupts my day with barks that make a doberman seem tame. So far the bunnies and my client calls aren’t on the same schedule.

Song for a Sunday

Here’s your song for a Sunday, complete with seasonal dance. “The Bunny Hop” may well be the first dance I ever learned; it was a favorite of my grandmother and ancient aunts. Still haven’t seen the real bunnies in my yard form a chain like that. Or wear a poodle skirt. Maybe they save that stuff for unwinding in their burrows, after hours.

Anyway, happy Easter for those of you who celebrate, and for the rest of you—hoppy Sunday.

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