Mr. McGregor Was Right

Accepting that nothing stays the same or lasts forever, I'm still thrown by the rabbits that have moved in over the last decade. For context: in 2010, a bunny in our yard was an event. A neighbor would snap a picture and text it to us like they'd spotted a bald eagle. 

Before that, my entire experience with rabbits was Bugs Bunny and the occasional misguided Easter present, and no, those did not fare well in the wild once the kids inevitably lost interest. Now I can't take my nightly constitutional without a bush exploding into a cascade of terrified rabbits. 

I don't hate them. My goal for the yard is to make it as boring as possible; nothing makes me more content than uprooting a shrub. One less root system to maintain. Still, as the years go by, I relate more and more to Mr. McGregor in his war with Peter and Benjamin. 

It isn't that they're devouring rows of lovingly tended cabbages. It's the entitlement. They take over the yard the way teenagers take over a public park: tap a keg, light a joint, and consider it home for the night. 

A deep dive on the internet blames warming temperatures for drawing the Eastern Cottontail to the Emerald City, where a town full of gardens waits like an all-you-can-eat salad bar. Essentially, the Promised Land. Time will tell how long they stick around, but I suspect they'll be a fixture for the rest of my life.