Short Story - THE INTERVENTION
Okay - so there’s a story here (isn’t there always?) So, in my writer’s group, there is a person who helps take care of abandoned bunnies in a shelter. Apparently, a lot of parents buy their kids a rabbit for Easter and when they realize that it’s actual work, they abandon them. It’s really sad.
ANYWAY! They said that eating carrots is like eating a pint of ice cream for a rabbit, and people don’t realize how unhealthy they are. At the same time, another author was having a low point and wanted to toss away all their work. Their family staged and intervention. So when the prompt became 500 words about Bunnies, this is what happened.
THE INTERVENTION
The bedding was way too soft. Too warm. Between that and his fur, Mr. Snuggles was about to die from heat stroke as he lay there pathetically, nose wiggling and heart thrumming through his chest. His three hutch-brothers loomed in the moonlight, staring down at him with pity in their dewy eyes.
“You need to stop,” Nutterbutter said softly.
“It’s affecting your health,” Fluffy agreed.
The mis-gendered Mrs. Flopsy heaved a sigh that puffed through his whole body. “And you know it, too, you’re just too stubborn to stop.”
“Who cares if I eat them every day?” Mr. Snuggles sneered. “They’re only carrots!”
“Which is the same as a daily pint of ice cream,” Nutterbutter chided.
“And an eighth of pot,” Fluffy chimed.
“And a nice, heavy snort of cocaine,” Mrs. Flopsy added with a harrumph. “Do you have a death wish?”
Mr. Snuggles tried to raise his body on stubby, trembling legs, baring his yellowed buck teeth, but the action made his head pound, and with a groan, he keeled over once more.
He hated them all in that moment. A bubble of burp kicked up, mixed with a heady wave of indignancy. How dare his hutch-brothers treat him like this? Their high and mighty whiskers twitched with disdain and their downy white hair bristled with an aggression barely hidden behind their dulcet tones.
Nutterbutter hopped his body a step closer. “You know we’re only doing this because we love you.”
“You only love me because the brats who own us don’t – and somebody has to!”
“Is that why you eat the carrots, Mr. Snuggles?” Mrs. Flopsy asked, ticking his ears up. “Because you feel we’re only obligated to love you?”
After some consideration, Mr. Snuggles admitted, “And because they’re delicious.”
On that point, they all had to agree, the three nodding their heads in wise understanding.
Trying to rise again, a wave of orange chunky bits lodged in the back of his throat, and he hacked and groaned like Danny DiVito coughing up his left testicle after a bad fall. If TV were to be believed, he, too, was close to the ground, but falls were jarring no matter your size.
“If you keep this up, they’ll take you to the vet!” Fluffy’s panic made his head shoot back and forth between the hutch-brothers.
Nutterbutter shuddered. “That man puts fingers in our bums…”
“Yeah,” Mr. Snuggles said, “But you like it.”
Nutterbutter’s eye roll was a thing of beauty.
Hopping closer, Mrs. Flopsy bopped Mr. Snuggles on the head. “Either way… no more carrots?”
“No more carrots,” Mr. Snuggles grumbled.
“Even on Sundays?”
Mr. Snuggles cast him a glare that would melt fur. “Even on Sundays.”
The team of bunnies who staged this intervention puffed out their chests with pride. Little did they know that Mr. Snuggles still had a stash of carrots under his bedding…and he still planned to eat every single one.
Addiction is a terrible thing.
