Oh how I’ve missed you dear reader.
You probably don’t recognize me, now that I’ve been stripped of my crown. Now that I no longer hold the title and wear the proud sash ‘Queen of Those Who Will Never Ever Allow Animals in this House.’
I’m not who you think I am. Or maybe I’m not who I thought I was.
Either way I am breaking radio silence with a confession.
Frankly, it’s my behavior. Erratic, unpredictable, and totally unprecedented; I don’t know who I am anymore.
Here’s the thing — We got a bunny.
As in a real live rabbit-like fritter (furry+critter = fritter) living INSIDE our home. I’ll wait while needles scratch on the sound-tracks of life and those who know me well gasp for air in an aura of disbelief.
It’s true. See?
That’s Pesto (the brown furry thing, not the kid.)
Surely it hasn’t been so long that you don’t recognize my birthday girl? You know, the one who looks pretty darn happy most of the time but apparently, sigh, could be so much more so if she got a bunny for her birthday.
The one who spent the better part of the year writing persuasion papers on how bunny-ownership improves the quality of life.
The gal who swears that she will take full responsibility for caring and cleaning and whatever else goes along with this pet shebang. (Go ahead and smirk, you know who you are.)
The one with the smile that screams I HAVE THE BEST MOM IN THE WORLD but secretly is thinking, hey, who is this strange lady? She looks a little familiar and still has that weird thing for kale, but gone is that unending diatribe against pets.
I don’t know what happened to her and if you, dear friends, think it best to lock me up than I defer to your better judgement. (Another confession: I’ve taken to chatting up the fritter as I walk by on days where it’s just me and him, home alone, clearly insane.)
Leaving for a moment the unanswerable question of how we got here, I bet you’re wondering how a floppy-eared fluffy thing goes and gets himself named after an herbed Italian sauce?
Once upon a day last week, I was covered in basil and garlic and wondering how to make it into sauce. This is what followed when I asked my daughter to read the list of ingredients from a googled recipe:
She: Do you want it in a southern accent, or a British one?
She: Well, Bubba, that’s just the way I feel about pesto
Me: Um, huh?
She: Well Bubba, that’s just the way I feel about pesto
And so it came to pass that
- My sauce did not taste very good.
- The bunny got named Pesto.
- Our family has a new framed motto that hangs above the kitchen table: