On the way home from the liquor store—Albertsons' is inexplicably closed, so it's Ed McMahon's Perfection and a Giant Slim Jim for dinner tonight—I heard the unmistakable sounds of a scrum in the bushes to my left. Peering over the flowering hedge, I saw a snake cornering a bunny in the gutter. I brandished Ed McMahon to no effect. I chunked a Giant Slim Jim. Snake and bunny remained locked in a diaromic display of Nature's red teeth and claws. I had no choice. No bunny dies on my watch. I grabbed a stick and entered the fray.
The snake slithered away. The bunny scuttled, stopped, turned to me almost appreciatively, then scooted away. As I stood gasping against Blockbuster's faux-stucco exterior, I had a Rashomon-moment:
My sympathies had been with the bunny from the first. I never even considered the possibility that the bunny had been the aggressor. An inveterate squamataphobe, I couldn't be bothered to give the snake the slightest benefit of the doubt. He could've been slithering along, minding his own snake-business when Peter "The Scale-Snapper" Cottontail came bounding out the bushes, murder on his mind. Maybe I missed the gang of feral rabbits hunkered in the brush, eagerly awaiting the signal to strike. Then I remembered:
I intervened. Presided over a motherfucking intervention. Right or wrong, it matters not: I did my academic duty.