bunkin

Pete has lost his leg to cancer. He's awake, the operation went fine and all is well. I'll update as and when I know what's happening.

Pete

The bunkin has either an abscess with massive amounts of scar tissue, or a tumor - the former being strange because it appeared so quickly, the second being rare in bunnies as it appears relatively skin-based. If it is a tumor, it's also grown quickly, which may have led to the center necrotizing. As it is, he went to the vet this afternoon (as I only saw it this morning) and had a drain put in; he's now on baytrill with a side order of pinapple juice; I'm going to be syringing baby food into him tomorrow, which he'll love. Almost as much as he loves his buster collar.

2 years!

Sir Peteykins McFluffbum The Rabbit of Doom is two. I knew easter was good for something beyond zombified deities.

Daphne

It's a strange thing to think that she's been gone nearly a year. I know people will say "she was only a bunny, they don't live long", and I tell myself that, but... Daphne way my bunny. My baby, my friend and confidante and comfort. I got so used to waking up to her bouncing on the bed by my head before climbing onto my desk - she knew that was the one place she wasn't allowed, and therefore the one thing guaranteed to get me up. So used to hearing her thump and charge up and down the halls, sniffing everything, playing throw with her ball or my shoes or a book or whatever caught her attention and clearly needed a good chewing.

She was such a foul-tempered thing when I first brought her home. She would chase T out the room, bite anyone foolish enough to put a hand under the sofa, snort and hiss and snarl like the Killer Bunny itself. But part of her was always loving, sudden moments where she's sit happily in my lap, or by my feet on the floor. She had to know where I was; she became my shadow, and I couldn't move without her taking notice.

I cried when she first kissed me. I was lying on the floor, desperately trying to communicate with my cantankerous bundle of fluff and spite, nearly asleep... when she decided that I wasn't so bad, after all. And that my hair was tasty too - so she licked my face, thoroughly. It became a routine; I'd sit, she'd hop up beside me and lick my hand... and I'd stroke her ears. We did it every night.

It's still quiet without her; literally as well as metaphorically. She was a noisy so-and-so, really. Full of bounce and adventure - I can remember her climbing all over my bed, along the back of the sofa - getting everywhere and into everything.

And then, a few days after we moved, she became ill. She lost her appetite, and lost her will to explore. She would sit in my lap, ignoring Pete completely, but lying so still and heavy. She faded over a few days, but she would still try to kiss me, even when she couldn't breathe properly, when I was syringing fluid down her and she would still try to fight back.

I don't know how long it will take for me to really get used to her not being around. Somehow, I don't think I ever will.

Peter Bunny

I'm sitting here, listening to Tori Amos and Pete is lying underneath my desk, leaning up against a box, flopped so that his hindquarters disappear into the shadows. Every now and again, his ears twitch and his head nods, and he wakes up a little, but then the next moment his nose sinks down onto his dewlap and he tilts towards the box again.

I wish I had a camera to hand, but it's on my desk and I don't want to disturb him, he looks so peaceful and relaxed.

Rabbit or Greyhound?

For the past two weeks, I've been re-bonding with my houserabbit. She used to live with a friend of mine (long, tortuous story) but when he moved back home, she came to stay with me. Daphne - after the Scooby-Doo character - is just over a year or so old; she's a French Lop. And a proper madam.

At the moment, she's lying, stretched full-length in the living room. She spends a lot of the day napping, dozing and checking her eyelids for leaks. And then she potters around the house for a little while, sniffing everything, checking everything is in place - and woe betide you if it isn't. One of her tricks is picking up shoes and throwing them out of the way - usually towards where they should be lying. She keeps me tidy. But after the exhaustions of shoe-throwing (or the olympic food-bowl throwing, usually held just after I've cleaned her room) she has a little nap.

There is, however, one event which demands stamina. Endurance. Training.

The Bunbun 400.

Dahpne starts in the bedroom, usually against a wall - or saving that, something which gives a satisfying noise when shoved - and charges, full tilt along the length of the corridor. She slaloms through the the kitchen doorway, scrabbling at the carpet tiles and narrowly avoiding the door. There's a sharp chicane around the bottom of the breakfast bar, weaving between the stool legs, and then the sharp turn under the sofa, usually executed by bouncing off the wall. And then back to the bedroom. And then lap two. And three. And maybe four, followed by a brief rest, before starting again.

This is all done at a charge, full of thundering feet, lop ears flapping furiously and white cotton-wool tail punctuating each bound with a wiggle. When turning corners, she binkies - flings herself into the air, twisting wildly as though attepmting to tie herself in knots - and lands with a thump far out of proportion to her size.

And after the race, she flops down again, to groom and shed fawny hair on the carpet before rolling on her back and sighing.