I’d hoped to have this post up by Thanksgiving, but, as they say, and as it often does, life happened while I was doing other things. Regardless, or irregardless as the case may be, and although a bit late, I’d like to tell you about a Thanksgiving ten years ago that was unlike any other in my life.

I refer, of course, to the strange case of the Macedonia Baptist Bunnies. (If I were Arthur Conan Doyle, and this were a Sherlock Holmes short story, I’d never refer to the MB Bunnies again, and you’d always wonder about the loose end. But, unusually for me, and just this once, I’m not going to digress, so here it comes):

It was ten years ago, mid-November, cold and rainy. I got an email from a friend of mine in the Pittsburgh House Rabbit Club about a group of abandoned rabbits in a rather dodgy area of Duquesne, a small city along the Monongahela River, just outside Pittsburgh. (When I’m talking about abandoned rabbits, I’m talking about domesticated (pet or meat) rabbits that have either escaped their living quarters, or which have (more likely) been dumped by their owners, usually in a grassy area such as a cemetery or a field. Many people think this is a kinder alternative than taking the bunnies to an animal shelter, but that’s misguided. Domestic rabbits are unable to fend for themselves in the wild, and are very likely fall prey, if not to horrible diseases, then to predators; they will almost certainly end up dead, and often in horrible ways. Please don’t do it.)