I hate myself.
I am weak.
I try to be good and kind and pure. Then things happen... and I write about them.
And when Drew writes about them... ugh.
So, here's the deal. Honestly. My wife used to work assisting an animal doctor. So she knows how to do all these things that I'd never do. And maybe that's why our house is like a freekin zoo.
You know. I've listed all the animals before.
Well, we have this bunny, too. A rescue bunny. Not like he's a superhero or anything. We saved him from an elementary school classroom that just got tired of caring for him.
I even built him a hutch. Not just a hutch... the Taj-ma-freekin-Hal of rabbit hutches.
We've had him for years.
Yesterday, he got sick. My wife can tell these things with animals, just by looking at them. Me? If they're moving, they're good to go. So, she wrapped him up in a blanket and sat by the fire with him, petting him.
My daughter asked, "What's wrong with the bunny, Mommy?"
Wife said, "I think he's dying."
Then she gave the bunny a shot of something. She put him in a special cage inside my son's room.
A little while later, my son came out and said, "I think the bunny is feeling better."
His mom answered, "That's because I gave him a shot."
I said, "Of heroin."
(Note: Hey cool cats and catareenas... Drew is not actually hip to the smack vibes... you know, man, it's double shot espressos, it's the SoCal-faux-Cal scene for him, jazz dogs and dogettes. So, don't call the fuzz, man, 'cause the fuzz don't swing the jests he slings.)