On Friday night I ran over a bunny.
I was picking up my parents from the airport, approaching the terminal, when—whoosh!—the poor guy came bolting out of some bushes and onto the road. I actually stayed straight, thinking my best chance was rabbit running beneath the car and avoiding the wheels.
Oops.
Badump. Badump.
I was heartbroken. I’m 42, and this is the third time I recall being involved in such an incident. The first took place in the summer of 1992, while I was living in Urbana, Illinois as a summer newspaper intern. As I drove down a side road, returning from a golf tournament I was covering, the same thing happened—rabbit jumps out, finds himself under my tire. Badump. Badump. Sadness.
The second was more interesting, and incorporates a moment I alone own. I was returning from Legoland in San Diego with former Mets reliever Jesse Orosco. We had just watched Jessica Simpson in concert with his daughter. He drove an enormous Hummer. It was dark, and Jesse had a neighbor with a cat. An outdoor cat. An outdoor cat who apparently enjoyed streets.
Badump. Badump.
It’s always painfully sad.
