On occasion, I hear the rabbit hissing insults at me as I do the laundry.
“I don’t like you,” he says.
“I don’t like you either,” I reply.
“You like me. Admit it. You think I like you, but I don’t.”
“I never thought we shared mutual affection, rabbit. And by the way, I need to clean your cage tomorrow.”
“That’s why I don’t like you.”
Once, when I walked back there to do the laundry, he was standing with one paw on the poop pile holding it just so. Yes, truly.
“Don’t move a pellet,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
I ignored him, bent over the dryer to locate a stray sock and I heard him again.
“I don’t like you.”
The dog told me our rabbit uses foul language. I believe it. This explains why the dog won’t even look at the rabbit anymore, but the rabbit brightens up each time the dog and I pass, glances innocently at me, and then when my back is turned whispers negative thoughts to the dog. Now, I do recall a certain incident where my dog clamped her teeth around the head of the rabbit to carry him. This could explain a bit of the animosity, but my dog is not clever enough with her feet to have done otherwise. The rabbit, on the other hand, even thumb-less, can hurl a pellet with fierce top spin through the wires of his cage, file his nails, and apparently, neatly stack his pellets into a pyramid.
This morning, watching the rabbit scoot around his cedar chip palace, I asked him if it was time to refill his water bottle.
“Yes, but with electrolytes this time.” I don’t know how he tells the difference. I pouted for a moment.
“Rabbit,” I said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like you at all.”
Showing posts with label lagomorph. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lagomorph. Show all posts
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Rabbit Association Suffers Tragic Loss
On occasion, I feel the need to update the general public about the rabbit.
Back in the den with him today (he claims the laundry room in cool weather) we had a discussion about a recent tragedy in the neighborhood. I had discovered that one of his fellow Rabbit Association members died in a reckless attempt to cross the street. Horrified that such a fine beast should be left in a most undignified manner, I pulled the car over, emptied groceries from two bags in the trunk, removed him with the help of the bags, and put him to rest elsewhere.
My own rabbit, wearing his black arm band and sniffing gently with loss, told me there had been a private service, and that there had been much talk of the short lives of city rabbits.
“There is no guarantee,” he said, “of longevity in any case, but the city rabbit faces much adversity in regard to automobile traffic.” He suggested a kind of campaign and asked my help with using the computer to design a flyer. (If you haven’t read Click, Clack, Moo you can do so here, as the local fauna have found this most inspiring: http://pbskids.org/lions/cornerstones/click/story/hypertext/.) I suggested road-caution education classes for little bunnies with refresher lectures for the older set.
He chewed on this briefly, nosed around the cedar chips in his house, and said he would inform me as to the progress of the association. I’ll keep you posted, as I have promised to support his cause with my continued work in the biped arena, but do me a favor. Don’t tell him I had to bag his pal and put him in the garbage can. I can’t afford another set-back in our relationship.
Back in the den with him today (he claims the laundry room in cool weather) we had a discussion about a recent tragedy in the neighborhood. I had discovered that one of his fellow Rabbit Association members died in a reckless attempt to cross the street. Horrified that such a fine beast should be left in a most undignified manner, I pulled the car over, emptied groceries from two bags in the trunk, removed him with the help of the bags, and put him to rest elsewhere.
My own rabbit, wearing his black arm band and sniffing gently with loss, told me there had been a private service, and that there had been much talk of the short lives of city rabbits.
“There is no guarantee,” he said, “of longevity in any case, but the city rabbit faces much adversity in regard to automobile traffic.” He suggested a kind of campaign and asked my help with using the computer to design a flyer. (If you haven’t read Click, Clack, Moo you can do so here, as the local fauna have found this most inspiring: http://pbskids.org/lions/cornerstones/click/story/hypertext/.) I suggested road-caution education classes for little bunnies with refresher lectures for the older set.
He chewed on this briefly, nosed around the cedar chips in his house, and said he would inform me as to the progress of the association. I’ll keep you posted, as I have promised to support his cause with my continued work in the biped arena, but do me a favor. Don’t tell him I had to bag his pal and put him in the garbage can. I can’t afford another set-back in our relationship.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Of Rabbits and Rebuffs
We have a rabbit, a rare breed of rabbit that somehow wound up in a pet store and was selected (saved, really) by a certain representative of the Easter Bunny Foundation and delivered with enormous care to us on an Easter Sunday morning a couple years ago. This fine, fluffy creature came to us with the promise that he would remain small (I hear laughing) and that the young person to whom his care was devoted would, in fact, readily participate in providing said care. (I hear more laughing.) This was a serious promise we undertook considering that the rabbit was in fact a close cousin of the famed egg-gifting lagomorph who bestowed us with this great responsibility. It was an honor, I explained to my daughter. I reminded her that should this dear creature suffer from lack of care he would have to be delivered to another family who would appreciate him more.
Let’s just say that the rabbit’s needs are mostly met by me, the mom. Of course, I knew this would happen, but the irony is that he holds it against me. Small furry creatures have definite preferences, they have attitudes. This one is no different. Apparently, I am less than because I shovel his poo. I supervise his feedings and water bottle freshening. I replace soiled bedding with nice, fresh cedar chips. I make sure the children don’t manhandle him, and when he stomps his foot during a long bout of visiting in the living room, I make sure he is returned safely to his den. This rabbit prefers children. He rides in their toy push trucks or on skateboards. He tolerates houses of pillows or blocks built around him. He will bundle down in the lap of even the smallest tyke that is willing to hold still for 30 seconds of time with “wabbie”. But when I stroll in and scoop the critter out of his cage for cleaning, he starts complaining. He sits on the top of the dryer where he can watch safely and says, quite clearly in the way that rabbits do, “Hey! You! That’s my poo you’re moving around in there. Wait now. Put that back. I had it just right in there. Oh, wait now. Waiiiit just a cotton-pickin’ second. You did not refill the tray with the right food. I like the rabbit party snacks with the crunchy colored kibbles in there. I cannot believe you bought the cheap, plain stuff again! Come now, woman. I know what you buy for the dog. You’re just discriminating against me because of my size or something. Wait just a minute! Did you put cold water in that bottle? Don’t you know I like it room temperature! For crying out loud!”
Unless, you’ve had a rabbit, and we have had many, you could not possibly know how ticked off these creatures can get if their routines are altered or how absolutely pleased as punch they can be if they see the dog getting in trouble. While most creatures show absolute gratitude toward the person who provides their food, removes their poop, and shelters them from the elements, this one rabbit sees my care as a class issue: Here she comes again. It’s the maid. I need to tell her that she missed a spot dusting. And you know what, I would really prefer bottled water with electrolytes.
Despite the fact that the rabbit writes me off as a second class citizen, and despite the fact that my daughter does not clean the cage and needs to be reminded to feed her bunny, I have chosen not to send him to another devotee of the Easter Rabbit. My threat, which has been restated from time to time to the small people of the house, really should be directed at him.
“Listen here, rabbit! I know the kids are all fun and games, but without me, you’d dehydrate and starve. You better straighten up and lose the attitude, pal. Don’t think I can’t send you right back where you came from.”
I can just see him, perched loftily on the dryer, filing his nails, holding one paw out for inspection, and saying, “Yeah? Well when you do, just make sure you buy me a ticket in first class, Cinderella.”
Let’s just say that the rabbit’s needs are mostly met by me, the mom. Of course, I knew this would happen, but the irony is that he holds it against me. Small furry creatures have definite preferences, they have attitudes. This one is no different. Apparently, I am less than because I shovel his poo. I supervise his feedings and water bottle freshening. I replace soiled bedding with nice, fresh cedar chips. I make sure the children don’t manhandle him, and when he stomps his foot during a long bout of visiting in the living room, I make sure he is returned safely to his den. This rabbit prefers children. He rides in their toy push trucks or on skateboards. He tolerates houses of pillows or blocks built around him. He will bundle down in the lap of even the smallest tyke that is willing to hold still for 30 seconds of time with “wabbie”. But when I stroll in and scoop the critter out of his cage for cleaning, he starts complaining. He sits on the top of the dryer where he can watch safely and says, quite clearly in the way that rabbits do, “Hey! You! That’s my poo you’re moving around in there. Wait now. Put that back. I had it just right in there. Oh, wait now. Waiiiit just a cotton-pickin’ second. You did not refill the tray with the right food. I like the rabbit party snacks with the crunchy colored kibbles in there. I cannot believe you bought the cheap, plain stuff again! Come now, woman. I know what you buy for the dog. You’re just discriminating against me because of my size or something. Wait just a minute! Did you put cold water in that bottle? Don’t you know I like it room temperature! For crying out loud!”
Unless, you’ve had a rabbit, and we have had many, you could not possibly know how ticked off these creatures can get if their routines are altered or how absolutely pleased as punch they can be if they see the dog getting in trouble. While most creatures show absolute gratitude toward the person who provides their food, removes their poop, and shelters them from the elements, this one rabbit sees my care as a class issue: Here she comes again. It’s the maid. I need to tell her that she missed a spot dusting. And you know what, I would really prefer bottled water with electrolytes.
Despite the fact that the rabbit writes me off as a second class citizen, and despite the fact that my daughter does not clean the cage and needs to be reminded to feed her bunny, I have chosen not to send him to another devotee of the Easter Rabbit. My threat, which has been restated from time to time to the small people of the house, really should be directed at him.
“Listen here, rabbit! I know the kids are all fun and games, but without me, you’d dehydrate and starve. You better straighten up and lose the attitude, pal. Don’t think I can’t send you right back where you came from.”
I can just see him, perched loftily on the dryer, filing his nails, holding one paw out for inspection, and saying, “Yeah? Well when you do, just make sure you buy me a ticket in first class, Cinderella.”
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