It’s a fine and pleasant morning outside my parents’ home. Perfect, actually, it’s 70 now, it’ll be 80 later. But later I’ll be staring at a computer screen for about 10 hours: I’ve got classes to study, videos to watch, graphs to dissect, excel files, letters to write to newspapers, postcards to send to people I don’t talk to anymore.
This isn’t particularly code for anything: I’m taking a “Statistics in Psychology” class, I’m helping out on a campaign, and I’m sitting on postcards I’m overdue in addressing.
Outside I go at 8:37 to take in the sunlight until 9 before I get going. 23 minutes is mine. A glass of red, Stendhal (which is taking me pathetically long to read), my dog to retrieve sticks. 3 sticks will be eviscerated, 5 pages will be read, 1 glass of red will go down the hatch. The coffee I’m brewing inside will pick me up.
To my surprise there’s a decapitated bunny off to the side of the yard. I’m displeased, I usher the dog back inside, I grab a shovel, I bury the poor bunny deep into the woods. I wish I could unsee bodies void of their heads.
It’s the second bunny that’s had this fate dealt to him in my parents’ backyard in the span of a month. It must be my cat, but he’s been docile for a decade, he’d play with the mice like they were toys. He’s had more of an appetite lately, it seems, I’m feeding him more often during the day than I can remember, and my dad says he’s been feeding him in the morning as he always has. I don’t know, I just wish he’d leave the rabbits alone. If he’s even the culprit, that is, someone might be framing him.
It’s now 8:55. I was to read and throw sticks to my dog for my 23 minutes, but instead I buried a rabbit. I bemoan my misfortune. I let the dog out again, but his playtime is shortened until lunchtime. The Cabernet Sauvignon won’t be sipped, it will be drained. A swift jolt to the dome. And I wish I could go back in time and tell the bunny to just hop somewhere else, there are so many other places he could’ve hopped. This town finds a way of taking lives early sometimes.
I’ll read Stendhal another time. The computer beckons me. I’ll listen to the birds chirp outside the window for much of the day. I’ll procrastinate and write this little blog post here. But now I should get back to it.