When it comes to me and rabbits, there is a strange case of ridiculous irony. When my local farmer calls with a complaint of the long-eared and fluffy-tailed persuasion, no time is spared before my trusty rimfire rifle and I charge to the meadows, where the dance of pest control beats to the quiet thump of subsonic rounds. I took around 200 rabbits off this single farm in 2022 and more off other permissions that sit a mere stone’s throw from my own doorstep. Yet here I stand in my kitchen, staring at my own (moderately sized) garden, filled with wild rabbits and the remnants of plants nibbled to dry husks.
Acres of land owned by others are protected and furry hoards kept at bay, but I seem unable to do the same at home, leaving my beds to look more like the surface of
