So, I was spending sometime with my grandson, River, on Wednesday (I hadn't seen him in two years) and we were walking through his backyard. He suddenly says, "Papa, I really feel sorry for Steve."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, we don't let him out much... He doesn't have a very good life." River said, with a sad and overly serious face for a seven-year-old.
I started trying to remember if my daughter-in-law's brother is named Steve. He's in his thirties and has fetal alcohol syndrome and lives in an assisted care facility.
"That's sad, Riv."
"Yeah, my Dad says he needs to be with his kind so were gonna give him to a ranch."
I started wondering if I needed to go through the closets in the house looking for an abductee or maybe call the cops or something.
"Wait a minute, Riv. Who's Steve?"
He pointed over at a low four-foot square wire cadge next to the back porch. It had a couple of random sized pieces of plywood over the top and a cinder block perched on top. I had walked past the thing a few times assuming it was just more of the random flotsam my son kept in his back yard. Looking more carefully, I noticed a white pile of fluff and realized there was a lop eared bunny curled up tightly in the corner. I looked down at my grandson and burst out laughing.
"You named your rabbit, Steve?"
He laughed with me, although with an uncomprehending expression. "Yeah, like the guy on Minecraft."
Three days later, I still can't stop laughing about it.