The bunnies are wildly destructive. We are planning a rabbit complex with sheltered hutches, attached outdoor runs, and day-use paddocks. The reign of the houserabbit is ending: two couches, one square foot of sheetrock, and one telephone cord later. When the weather warms, they make the move, though we'll always bring them in for daily companionable visits.
The goats are well. Missy spends some time standing in the middle of the paddock, head tilted, hackling at nothing. We wonder if she suffered some brain damage during her mysterious bout with paralysis, but we are happy to see her enjoying the things she's always loved: back scratches, alfalfa, dominant stand-offs with her herdmates and the human children.
B.G. remains the friendliest goat ever, and she alone prefers human companionship to hay—when I feed the four hoofbeasts, three tuck in and one shadows me, adoringly, as they do. She'll kid in June, having been bred to the lovely specimen at left last month. (The gremlin-like appeal of a urine-soaked buck continues to fail me, but he's a fellow with great breeding and a wonderful reputation.)
Jasper Jules is hard at work in the habitat, which we thought we'd cleaned out rather well. He recently excavated a bramble-encased motor vehicle engine, proving that human gardeners are no match for a goat when it comes to clearing. He's better than a weedwhacker, and handsomer.
The cats are well, and entertain us endlessly with their nightly games of fisticuffs. Desmond stands over Townes, tail twitching ominously, ears pinned back, and Townes threatens him with slow-motion paw-swipes. They explode after a minute or two of this, plunging into a howling, spitting, 40-clawed hug. Then—silence, and the standoff begins again. No one is ever hurt, and they always walk away as friends: rubbing, nuzzling, and matching each other stride for stride.
(to be continued)