
THAT’S what it might have been if our guns hadn’t been handed in to John Howard 20 years ago. And we’re all better off for it now because only in my mind was I a crack shot. If I’d let a few bullets fly here at the homestead in McIlwraith Rd, a lot of unintended consequences might have ensued. It’s very unlikely that my quarry would have been hit; it would have just scarpered away and hidden. And learnt not to be around when I had that big loud thing in my hand. Those big loud sticks are pretty useless, anyway.
Here at the RK Homestead, we’ve declared war on them, built fortifications to exclude, lock the gates every night and conduct scouting operations many mornings at 5am. And the whole plan works beautifully, except when it doesn’t, which has my scalp rent of remaining hair as I cry out and beat my chest – there it is, in the middle of the lawn, the rabbit.
Why so evil? Because Roger and his brethren eat all the plants, right down to the roots, eroding our foreshore cliffs. His merry band – I’m told on good authority, their senses fortified by whisky – have wild orgies in them warrens dug under houses and under clever little spaces, and there they have unprotected sex (!!!), so that one Roger and Matilda can beget hundreds of littlies in one year.
But back to the RK Homestead. We’ve patrolled the property, put down 900mm rabbit proof mesh (they chew through chicken wire) along and up wire fences, along the edges of timber fences, collapsed their warrens and herded them all towards the gate in what was known, just earlier this year, as the great RK Homestead Rabbit Drive of 2023. People heard it all over Rhyll – there was a lot of whooping and yippee yay yoying - they were a noisy bunch, those five.
The battle has begun. The cause is valiant. If them varmits don’t do me in, I’ll tell you more about their exploits next time.
Signed, RK at the Homestead