It was a beautiful, sunny day. I was determined to carefully dig up a few mounds of Shasta Daisies to share with some of the Burgh Moms. I trudged around the yard, looking for stray daisies that were just screaming to be moved. There are hundreds, possibly thousands, of daisies at the end of the driveway, so I plunked down my shovel and prepared to dig.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!" I screamed. Like a girl. Like a wussy girlie girl. With perfectly pedicured nails, and pretty ponytails. And a cheerleading outfit. A pink cheerleading outfit.

What I thought was a mouse had ran across my flip-flop covered foot.

As I slowly jumped back into my skin I spotted my alleged mouse. It wasn't so much a mouse as it was a bunny. A teeny tiny fuzzy widdle baby bunny rabbit.

I'm pretty sure it tried to kill me. THAT is why I screamed, not because I am a girlie wuss.

Of course my scream caught Mr. Husband's attention, so he came wandering over to mock me. "Check out the baby bunny," I said, careful to not tell the true story of how that teeny tiny baby bunny had teeth like Dracula and was likely to tear him to shreds if he got too close. Or maybe the bunny only chews on women. Whatever.

Mr. Husband thinks every animal is in need of his special touch, so he began stalking the bunny in an attempt to catch it. He managed to chase the bunny right into the storm drain.

Cue 40 minute break in the action while Mr. Husband tried various shovels, tools, and finally a fish net to rescue the bunny from it's damp dungeon.

Once Mr. Husband had caught the bunny, he harassed it for quite a while, then decided to show it to the Toddler. She? Was not amused:

But dang it, the girl didn't scream. I guess I'm the biggest wuss in the house after all.