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Saturday, December 28, 2002

By Peter McKay

While we don't exactly live out in the wild, we've found that life in the suburbs has provided plenty of opportunities to commune with nature. Before moving here, we lived in the middle of New York City, where the only wildlife we ever saw was the occasional rat (or, as my kids came to know them, "city squirrels").

	Homemaking is a column about the people, projects and pride that make a house a home. Peter McKay, a Ben Avon resident, is a nationally syndicated columnist with Creators Syndicate.

Some of our wildlife contact has been annoying, as when raccoons raid our trash cans every night. (They live in a hollowed out cherry tree. I can tell by the trail of bread wrappers and egg crates leading across the lawn.) And based on the fur matted into the cushions of our side porch couch, we had a stray cat camping out there for an entire summer. At least we hoped it was a cat.

Other wildlife we've encountered are kind of cool. I walked into our back yard last year to find a wild turkey roosting in our gutter. And once a deer passed our house, walking down the sidewalk on his way from one wooded area to the next.

But the best part of our little nature preserve is all the wild rabbits.

I'm not sure why we don't mind the rabbits. On the one hand, they are like oversized, obese rats, but, on the other hand they are cute and quiet and stay out of our way.

One morning last month I came out of the house and noticed a little bunny grazing in the front yard. In the early light, it was quite picturesque, and I thought I'd like to encourage this kind of wildlife visitation. We have a birdfeeder, so the birds (and unfortunately, the squirrels) are fed, and I know that the raccoons will never go hungry, as I long ago lost the lids to our trash cans. But it suddenly occurred to me that the rabbits must find slim pickings once our lawn begins to shrivel in the cold. I slipped back into the house, ran to the kitchen and grabbed a huge carrot from the fridge.

Going back out the front door, I edged my way off the stoop, planning to toss the carrot to the bunny. After a few mornings of this, I was sure, the bunnies would be eating out of my hand. We might even build a rabbit hutch out back and let the kids take care of them.

I'd only gotten halfway off the stoop, though, when the bunny looked up and tensed as if to run. There was no way I could make friends with him if he thought I was a stalker. I eased back onto the stoop, holding out the carrot. If I was careful, I could toss the carrot from where I stood, and it would land with a plop on the ground in front of him. Once he realized I had no plans to turn him into a stew, I reasoned, he would calm down and even attempt to approach me when I came outside.

Judging the distance carefully, I swung my arm and lobbed the carrot high into the air. I watched as it twirled in the dappled sunlight, making a perfect arc. Too late it occurred to me that I might have too good of an aim. I froze as the carrot zeroed in on the little guy, and winced as it landed, hard, on top of the bunny's head, like an edible scud missile. He let out a single, harsh cough-like noise and rolled over onto his back, his legs in the air.

I stood in shock for a moment. I had never killed a rabbit with a carrot before, and therefore, had little idea of what to do. I ran over to him, looking around and hoping none of the neighbors had seen this. I stood over the motionless creature, silently trying to figure out the best way to dispose of a rabbit corpse.

Suddenly the bunny opened his eyes, flipped over, gave me a frightened look, and bolted for the bushes. Taking a quick look up and down the street, I grabbed my carrot and ran back inside, escaping the scene of the crime.

Last week, one of my little girls tried to walk up to a rabbit in our yard, only to have it flee in fear. She stared at it sadly.

"Why are the bunnies so scared of us?" she asked in frustration.

"I don't know," I answered, feeling just a little guilty. "Animals can be skittish about people."