Maybe it’s a temporary phase. Maybe there are just boundaries we realize we can’t cross. But I haven’t been able to “process” the rabbits. Correction: I can’t kill rabbits. This puts a bit of a kink in my “learn how to live independently” journey.
Former intern, Tyler came by a couple of months ago to process the first crop of rabbits in exchange for taking home some meat. I couldn’t help due to my “paying” job. Truthfully, after hearing the first rabbit shriek, I cowered inside with my headphones on to block out the noise. Once the deed was done, I was fine with viewing the rest of the process, but you can’t get to one without the other.
I’ve grown up hearing the stories of my great-grandmother Conway, Hill Country, Texas frontier-woman, who in the early 1900s carried a rifle, raised four children, and would have had no qualms getting that rabbit into the dinner pot.
So while I analyze my sudden squeamishness and investigate alternate ways to get back on track, I have several bunnies for sale, just in time for Easter.