I have the craziest dreams. My head on the pillow is my entryway into a virtual reality influenced by whatever happened to me or around me that day.
So, when I dreamt that I met the Easter Bunny on the Elora Cataract Trail in an early morning haze, it made perfect sense that he would be there. (It also made perfect sense that I was exercising in the early morning, because yeah, that would happen.)
The fact that the Easter Bunny was using the Belwood section of the trail was totally plausible too, because it’s one of my favourite sections. And let’s face it, if you must hop about carrying a basket full of chocolate treats, you want a clear-cut path to head down, not to mention the security benefits of tall grass and thick brush sidelines to hide if, say, Mr. Fox happens to be out jogging. (Different dream).
The Easter Bunny appeared out of nowhere, leaping directly into my path. We startled each other. Struck by genuine curiosity, we sized each other up.
He was a little taller than I expected: a full two feet when propped on his hind legs. His coat was seasonally appropriate; shades of brown, blending in with the early spring surroundings. His tail was perfectly white and his long ears were pointed straight up as if always on alert. But it was the bow tie that really threw me off. Polka dots. So cliché. I expected better.
In his paws was a large rounded wicker basket stuffed full of Easter chocolate treats. When our eyes met, he asked, grumpily, “What are you looking at?”
The little rabbit had a deep, rough voice, suggesting he was perhaps compensating for his tiny stature. Hard to say really. Maybe he smoked a pack a day. I wasn’t judging. But he had all the attitude and sardonic wit I expected of a celebrity rabbit unaware that he had just met his match.
“Why do you drop off eggs if you’re a rabbit?” I asked, patronizingly. “Why isn’t there an Easter Chicken?”
He rolled his big eyes, suggesting I lacked originality.
“Would you prefer I leave little black raisins?” he responded, dryly. Feisty little fella.
He looked up at my curvy, statuesque frame (shush, I’m still dreaming) and asked, “Why do you only get on this trail when you’re dreaming? Is exercise really something you think you can afford to put off at your age?”
Touché. Well played funny bunny. And just like that we were fast friends.
Silly rabbit, it was all just a dream. I awoke in a pool of drool and rolled over to find tiny balls of foil wrappers on my bedside table, evidence of the chocolate binge I enjoyed the night before while thinking about exercise.
Let’s say I was practicing visualization techniques using chocolate aids. But trust me, if the Easter Bunny rips me off on chocolate treats this year, I will dream about introducing him to the jogging fox … my dream, my rules.