Joyce Wadler’s Peter Rabbit Must Die had me laughing so hard I nearly watered the lilies. Best vicarious thrill I’ve had since seeing Made of Honor a couple weeks ago. Rabbits long ago ceased being the cute cotton-tailed creatures of Potter (Beatrix, not Harry) fame. They are varmints, plain and simple. Garden desecrating, always defecating, spirit dissipating varmints.

Last fall I threw in the trowel. No longer would I feed them in the manner to which they had become accustomed. No freaking way I was going to spend a Ben Franklin on tulip bulbs, three fall afternoons planting them, and another few Lincolns the following spring on odious-smelling potions (think rotten egg) just to keep Mr. and Mrs. Peter from doing what came naturally. To wit, hopping into my garden come spring to sever each and every beautiful tulip flower from its sturdy green stem. Red, pink, yellow, white. Didn’t matter, they decapitated them all. One day before full blossom. Every spring. Every blossom. Visions of lapin al la cocotte danced in my head. But I keep kosher. And don’t own a gun.

However this spring was different. Not that Mr. & Mrs. Peter haven’t been hopping overtime to breed more desecraters, defecators and spirit dissipaters. I haven’t quit gardening, nor have I ceased fantasizing about doing great and gusty harm to them. I simply took a zen approach and planted daffodils, flowers I can now confirm rabbits turn their twitchy noses up at. (That’s two for you, Sir Winston.)

The varmints are still hanging around, but they’ve left my daffs alone. Every single one of them. Because, Sam-I-Am, rabbits do not like daffodils. They do not like them in the front yard. They do not like them in the back yard. By the patio, beside the fence, beneath the tree, they let them be. Just like that.

Come fall I’ll plant even more. Maybe the bunnies will turn cottontail and find greener pastures and pinker tulips elsewhere. And if not, let them eat rake.