I don’t know how he ended up in Doggyspace Town Square. He was slumped in the gazebo, with a bottle of carrot water at his feet. There were colored eggs scattered on the floor. He was talking in his sleep. “Washed up, I’m washed up, I am.”
I jumped on to the bench next to him and licked his hand. “Mr. Bunny?” I said softly. “Are you okay, Mr. Bunny?”
He woke up with a jerk of his head. He saw me, and despite being five times my size, he began to tremble. “Don’t hurt my little dog,” he said.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said, putting a paw on his arm. “I hadn’t harmed a rabbit since I got to the Bridge unless you count a few random, non-Lutheran words uttered at them when they raided my garden. “Mr. Bunny,” I said softly, shaking his arm to rouse him from his self-pity. “Tell me what I can do.”
He smiled. “First, you can call me by my given name, Easter. I am upset because I have spent the past year making special eggs for everyone, and now because of the virus, I can’t get into their houses.”
This damn virus. It’s always the fictional rabbits who suffer the most Harvey is in isolation, Peter is going hungry because Mr. McGregor can’t plant his garden. Rabbit is in the 1,000 Acre Woods Psychiatric hospital with nervous exhaustion. They are the silent victims of this disease.
But the Easter Bunny had the more pressing problem. The holiday was right around the corner, and there were children waiting for their chocolates and eggs. What we needed was an Easter Miracle. Everyone raves about Christmas miracles, but no one pays any attention to Easter Miracles except, you know, for the first really big one.
I asked the Easter Bunny if he was sure he couldn’t still bring his eggs and goodies to the children. “I did a trial run in upstate New York last week,” Easter explained. “Governor Cuomo came after me in a tank and demanded I get off the street. I told him I was the Easter Bunny, and he said, ‘sure, and I am Santa Claus now go home.’ I don’t think he’s Santa. If he were, everyone would be leaving pasts and cannolis at Christmas and not cookies.“
This was a conundrum. I laid on the seat and thought about the problem for a long time. Suddenly, I got gobsmacked by an idea. “People have to be off the street, but not dogs!” I barked excitedly. “We could deliver the treats!” My fluffy tail wagged excitedly.
“How are we going to get the treats to the dogs?” the Easter Bunny asked.
I said I could ask Santa if we could use his sleigh. “No way!” the Easter Bunny said. “I am not working with that tank, driving Bastardo!” There wasn’t enough time to explain away the confusion. Then I had another idea.
“The only other souls allowed on the street are Amazon drivers. You ship the eggs to our houses by Maundy Saturday, and our dogs will deliver the eggs,” I said, happy I had solved the problem.
“Maundy Saturday, what the hell is that?”
I didn’t have time to teach something to the Easter Bunny. He really should have known anyway. I had to work all night to get all the eggs mailed. On Easter Eve, the dogs will slip out of the house and deliver the treats. It will be a real Easter Miracle.
And maybe, someday, children will wait up Maundy Saturday night for Foley the Easter Puppy to arrive.