When Laura first got pregnant, we bought this:
It’s a popular hooked pregnancy pillow. You rest your baby sphere on it and sleeping becomes less sucky. This is the “mini” size pillow, which we bought because we only have a full-size bed and thought it would take up less space. As it turned out, “mini” is the opposite of what Laura requires so she grew out of it within a few weeks and we upgraded to a bigger one. The mini got stuffed in a plastic bag and put in the closet.
A few weeks ago we traveled to her parents’ house for the weekend and took the mini pillow along. She figured it would be better than nothing, and the large one she now uses would be cumbersome to take, not to mention tough to sleep with on the twin-sized bed at their house. The mini served its purpose, we came back, it sat in the car for a week before we remembered to take it inside, and finally we did and threw it on the floor behind a chair in the living room, forgetting about it for 3-4 days.
Until last night.
Around 6:30pm, we were enjoying some sloppy joes and watching the Butter Shave episode of Seinfeld. The sloppy joes were carefully assembled and eaten cautiously, as with anything I eat, so I could avoid the whole “sloppy” part of the sandwich name. Kramer decided to start shaving with butter and Newman spent the episode trying not to eat him. George faked a limp to get a private bathroom. Jerry threw his set to screw with Kenny Banya. Things were going well. Then:
“What’s that noise?” Laura asked.
“What noise?” I said, hearing nothing.
“That crinkling sound.”
“What crinkling sound?”
“There it is! That!”
I heard nothing.
“I have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re talking about, turn off the a/c and TV,” I said.
We waited in the stillness.
“There!” she shouted. I heard it that time. It sounded like a rustling plastic bag.
“Well… that’s bound to be something,” I said. “Do we have a mouse? That would not please me in any fashion.”
We waited again, then heard the crinkle once more.
“It sounds like it’s in this room.”
I remembered the bagged pregnancy pillow behind the recliner I was sitting in.
“Maybe it’s just my chair hitting the bag of that stupid pillow,” I said, and I started rocking the chair back and forth. The crinkle sounded right but didn’t match up.
“That sounds like the same crinkle, but it’s not crinkling the same way. Plus I wasn’t moving my chair when you heard it.”
I stopped moving and got up. The crinkle happened again.
“I think there’s something living in that bag.”
Now, if you know anything about me, you’ll know there’s absolutely no way in sweet, juicy, peach-scented hell I’m going to just pick up this bag and see if there’s a critter inside. My doing that has equal odds to Kevin McAllister apologizing to Buzz at the beginning of Home Alone 2, and he’d rather kiss a toilet seat. Instead, I went to the laundry room and grabbed my Swiffer and a Stanley tripod light, because the corner behind the chair is fairly dim and I couldn’t look in the bag clearly with the room’s ambient lighting. I crept back to it, pointed the light, and turned it on.
“Sweet Jennifer Jesus, there’s a baby bunny in this bag.”
Now, this bag had been sitting there for a few days. Prior to that it was in our brand new car. Laura currently spends 90% of her life in this room, flopped on the couch watching SVU reruns and waiting for babies to come out of her. How this little hippity hop got into our house and into this bag is a mystery we have yet to solve. Regardless, we had a damn rabbit in a bag, and I didn’t really want a rabbit in a bag, so it had to go. We locked the dogs in another room (somehow they never noticed this thing in the same room as them, possibly for days) and got to work.
Our house’s “front” door is not really used by anyone. It leads to the area right behind this living room chair and is considered the secondary entry to the house, with the side door off the driveway being the main portal. Still, in this instance, it was handy placement as this bag with the bunny was about two feet from the door. We figured we could scare it out of the bag and it would run out the door.
Obviously, that didn’t happen. The bastard ran out of the bag and under the chair. When I scared it out of there, it ran along the baseboard and into the opposite corner behind a glass display case filled with my porecelain dog collection and my grandmother’s Lladros. This was an incredibly crappy, hard-to-access place for it to hide. When I finally scared it out via a combination of loud shouting and gentle Swiffer handle-pokery, it ran back under the chair, then to another place in the room. And then another, then another, then another. I tried to get it to run into a cardboard box, but of course that failed massively as well. The way it hopped around the house was so cute, and it was so small and helpless that I tried to coerce it gently. I didn’t want to touch it, even though it’s mother may have already abandoned it after not seeing it for days.
To make a long story shorter, after about 20 minutes of chasing this adorable bastard around our living room with a cleaning tool, box and flashlight, it made its way over to the door and I Swiffered it out, its bum hitting our front porch with a very cute plop before it scampered away. I shouted like Duncan MacLeod, lightning struck, and I absorbed all of the rabbit’s knowledge and power. Unfortunately that was nothing.
This was the first rodent that had ever been in our house. We didn’t evacuate it with the most grace, but we kept its tiny body in tact and got it where it belongs, so I deem that a win.
And what about the state of that almost-perfect-condition mini pregnancy pillow that was serving as his Motel 6, you ask? It was covered in loads of shit and urine, of course, and now awaits Thursday morning when the garbage people take it to a hole in the ground.
I hope the little bunny went outside and ate some of my plants, because I’m sure he was hungry. I know I was, and once I kicked him out, finished the delicious non-sloppy joe I was consuming before being so rudely interrupted.