Buddy and Bunny

When I came home this morning, I expected the usual greeting. Buddy, waiting by the door, tail wagging like a metronome set to “happy.” But not today.

Instead, I found him still in bed, looking mighty cozy, which should’ve been my first clue. Sure enough, nestled beside him like a fuzzy houseguest who forgot to check in at the front desk, was a gray rabbit.

Now, before you think I’m exaggerating, let me assure you: this was not a stuffed toy, not a dream, and certainly not a hallucination brought on by lack of coffee. It was a living, breathing, twitchy-nosed rabbit. And when I leaned down to scratch Buddy’s head, the rabbit did what rabbits do best—it exploded into motion.

I’ve seen a lot of things move fast—teenagers with car keys, politicians dodging a straight answer—but nothing compares to a rabbit in a blind panic. It ricocheted down the hall, bounced off the couch, and made a beeline for the master bedroom. Before I could say “Elmer Fudd,” the thing had gone to ground under the bed.

So, I did what any sensible person would do: I became a one-person animal control unit. First step: close all doors.

Bedroom? Shut.

Bathroom? Sealed tighter than Fort Knox.

Kitchen? Secured.

Then, armed with nothing more than patience and a low threshold for nonsense, I crouched down and peeked under the bed. Two glowing eyes stared back at me, as if to say, “You think you run this house, human? Think again.”

With some coaxing and a lot of shooing, I managed to drive the rabbit back into the living room, then out through the open sliding door. Victory, or so I thought.

Because here’s where the story turns from weird to Twilight Zone. Out in the backyard, Buddy and the rabbit stood facing each other—still as statues.

It wasn’t the casual look two strangers give each other. No, this was deep.

It was, “I know your soul” deep as if they were exchanging classified information via some canine-lagomorph telepathy.

I called Buddy inside, thinking that would break the spell. Instead, he trotted back to his bed—and the rabbit followed him. Back to the same spot, to the same nap. Two furry friends, side by side, like it was the most natural arrangement in the world.

Now, I’ve lived long enough to know when I’m getting left out of a plan. Whatever pact Buddy and that rabbit had, it didn’t include me.

So, I stood there in the hall, scratching my head, and finally said out loud: “Okay.”

Then I went to my study and shut the door behind me, leaving the two of them alone—with the back door open in case Mr. Rabbit decided he had rested enough. Some folks might say I should’ve chased the rabbit off for good, or at least called animal control.

But common sense tells me this: if Buddy, who has never gotten fooled by a squirrel, a cat, or the UPS driver, decided this rabbit was safe company, then who am I to argue? Besides, in a world where we humans spend too much time fighting, fretting, and fussing, maybe there’s something to learn from an unlikely friendship between a dog and a rabbit.

Maybe it’s as simple as this: trust your friends, keep the door open, and don’t assume you’re in charge of everything.

Still, I’ll be keeping an eye out. Because if I come home tomorrow and find that rabbit wearing Buddy’s collar—or worse, sitting in my chair with a cup of coffee—I’ll know the conspiracy is complete.

And before I forget, I’m thankful it wasn’t a skunk.