We celebrated the fourth on the fifth at the in-laws, as it always is.
I was outside watching Tinkerbell do her tiny doggie business on the back lawn, and Wilma said, "Oh, good, that's her regular spot. Yesterday, I was on the phone and she was hunched over funny and I started screaming."
Wilma will do that, jump directly to the end of a story. Here's the whole story, as told later by Wilma:
"I was on the phone with my brother, Rick."
Gary interrupted, "You mean Uncle Dick?" Uncle Dick decreed ten years ago that he was now to be called Rick. Wilma is the only one who has complied.
'Well yes." (I am skipping the part in which Wilma discusses the Dick-to-Rick transition.) "Then when I was on the phone, with Rick, I saw Tinkerbell go over to that end of the yard, then when I looked again she was hunched over funny, looking at the ground. So I sent Ken out to see what she was looking at. He said it was a dead bunny rabbit. So I screamed -- And you know that rabbit died from a heart attack because those kids in that yard were firing off firecrackers."
"Excuse me," I said. "Really?"
"Oh yes. It was an old rabbit."
I covered my smile. "You don't think the dog may have - "
"No! Rabbits die from heart attacks all the time." She turned to Gary. "Remember when you kids had that bunny, the one that kept biting you? Ken took it to the vet and as soon as they put it on the exam table it had a heart attack and died."
I felt a little bad for laughing at Wilma, so I did some investigation on Google. I've found two bits of information:
One: Rabbits really can die of fright. I was wrong and Wilma was right.
Two, and I find this the essential bit of information: Miniature dachshunds like Tinkerbell were bred to kill bunnies.