This afternoon I came home to a dead bunny.
It had been tossed over the fence and into my backyard. Intentionally.
My right-wing, conservative sweetie isn’t convinced. Mostly because he’s not the one who takes the brunt of my miserable neighbour’s passive-aggressive-patriarchal misogyny.
This is not going to be a popular post for any of my fellow left-leaning social-idealists. Mostly because I live in a little pocket of the city that has been sold out from under our feet to foreign investors. And the ‘foreign’ part comes from a part of the world that doesn’t value human rights, especially not women’s rights. As a matter of fact, (and it is a fact), female offspring were often offed in favour of males. Hey, facts are facts and it’s best to face them.
I knew where the dull-eyed, disemboweled bunny came from because the day before, my asshole-misogynist neighbour pointed out that there was a dead rabbit on the sidewalk in front of our house. I don’t walk down that sidewalk every day, so it may have been there for a while, but it didn’t look or smell like it. I know death. I know what it looks and smells like.
I don’t think the neighbour knows I’m a mortician. I don’t think he knows that dead things don’t really bother me. But miserable old pricks do.
Anyway, after he pointed the animal out to me, I shovelled it off to the curb so that the municipality could pick it up. I shovelled it into a small pile of leaves, which made it really difficult to see. I want to point out here, that it was me, not the man of the house who didn’t shy away from cleaning up the carcass from the public sidewalk. I watched as the neighbour walked down the street again to find out where I put the rabbit.
So, today, when I came home to find that same bunny (that was well camouflaged on the side of the road in the little bed of leaves) in the middle of my vegetable gardening area, it didn’t take long to know who put it there.
It was the-dink-next-door who told me to clean up the leaves in the front yard last year, but waved and smiled to my man. Same jack ass who told me to shovel the garage entrance and doesn’t whisper a word to my sweetie.
Anyway, creepo-neighbour-dick-wad, had to walk onto the road, pick up the rabbit, cross back over the sidewalk and then swing the rabbit over our fence. I am infuriated.
And I’m about to become the world’s most annoying neighbour.
In a civilized culture, we contact the municipality, and they safely clean up what is basically road kill (although from the look of this, it was a coyote who caught and chomped the upper abdomen of the little bunny). In the civilization I grew up in, we do not throw dead animals into the neighbour’s yard because we’re passive-aggressive women-haters. But we do take psychopath people who do that kind of thing, to task. And I have every intention of doing just.
Unless we come up with some really great protection against foreign ownership of Canadian property, and create a market that reflects housing needs and affordability based on the local economy, we’re in for big trouble. And by we I mean women, and by god, especially marginalized of women.
I don’t think it matters in my neighbourhood that I’m a woman, or a homosexual, or trans. I think it matters that I’m not a man. Being politically involved, and realizing the impact that our unaffordable, but competitive real estate market can have on the values we hold dear, becomes very important for anyone who values human rights.
Picking up the dead rabbit and tucking it into the compost bin was a more respectful option than grabbing it by the back feet and nailing it to my bastard neighbour’s front door, or playing a game of throw-a-bacteria-infested-carcass-back-and-forth. After all, the spirit of the animal deserves some respect.
Even though I resisted my urge to educate my neighbour about what is neighbourly behaviour and what isn;t, while holding the dead rabbit against his face, this is not over.
I hope it happens when I’m looking anything but the picture of feminine helplessness. As a matter of fact, I hope it happens while my hair is still wild from bed, and I’m in a loud, unflattering muu-muu. I like to make a statement. And that statement will be; I don’t give a fuck what you think of me, and I’m not to be crossed. Especially by a man whom I could snap in two with my unfeminine big-boned frame.
Perhaps however, it will happen while I’m in dirty yoga gear that doesn’t quite fit, after a long-hot, day of gardening, hair stuck to my sweaty forehead, and garden spade in hand.
Regardless, I have now committed to be the neighbour who plays great female vocalists right up until 11pm on my brand-spanking new outdoor blue-tooth speaker. I’m thinking Maggie Rogers or Janis Joplin or Sinead O’Connor, just loud enough to be heard through closed windows and above his television. I will likely add some pulsing strobe lights on the garage eaves for good measure, and invite my feminist friends over to have enthusiastic, unfiltered conversations in the back yard.
I will make a point of making my point. And I will do it often, over and over and over again.
What was it that, that cool 80’s girl-band sang about? Oh yah, “It’s a cruel, cruel summer.”