|Harriet is not usually loose with me like this. This particular |
photo was taken in celebration of Easter before she
was returned to her wire-lined gulag.
Erm . . . .
Third time's the charm!
My rabbits live amongst the hoofbeasts, now, you know—they have a stall, bedded in straw, and a watering trough and a grain pan and a grass-and-gravel turnout paddock. The only difference between them and us is that their stall and paddock are lined with chicken wire, to prevent digging, and topped with fishnet, to prevent abduction-by-eagle. I, who have almost had my two precious ears stolen by an eagle, understand all to well the need for this latter precaution.
The former precaution, to prevent digging, is made because of an anatomical peculiarity of my rabbits: you see, in place of hooves they have razor-sharp pickaxes on the ends of their legs (five or four per, depending whether it is a forefoot or a hind). They use them to rend the earth up into moist, dark heaps, and then they slither into their excavation like a snake and disappear. This is a sinister and un-mulelike behavior.
Otherwise, the rabbits are pleasant. Like mules, they dust-bathe, graze, gallop, groom one another, rest in the sun, and discuss the complexities of herd life and pecking order amongst themselves. They congregate with we mules and goats, attend regular meetings of the Bent Barrow Hoofbeast Society (we gather daily near the electric fence for a daily State of the Grasses address), and generally behave like good little herbivores.
FarmWife is happier, too, because they are not eating her sheetrock.
The FarmChildren are happy because now all the neighborhood can know what beautiful rabbits we have.
I am happy because a crew of six herbivorous mammals is stronger in voice and vote than a herd of four, and if we should want to then we should be very close to overthrowing the humans completely.