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.

For Indigo

It seems strange that we lie here together, wrapped in blankets and sound,
me reading, you dozing,
watching me with those patient brown eyes half-sleepy half-adoring.
Your head is resting on my hip,
your paws jutting into my legs as you insist on taking up two-thirds of the sofa,
lying along side me.
You have inspected the book I'm reading,
decided that it's not worth chewing, as you prefer textbooks or schoolbooks or secondhand romance novels.
Either that, or you approve of Neil Gaiman (but don't like a-level drama texts).
As I type, you've rested your head on my legs, causing pins and needles to invade my feet,
but move when prodded, groaning and sighing as though I've asked you to perform some impossible feat.
It seems strange that we've been together for nearly nine months now,
at once the time has gone quickly, but I can't imagine not having you at my side, underfoot, stealing my clothes or waking me in the middle of the night by kicking me in the face as you did last night.
You're my good dog.

Rambings

I've just gotten back from taking Indigo for his late-night walk. Or rather, he's taken me - we march down to the grass, have a cursory sniff of the first few trees, and that's that, thank you very much, quick-time back to the house. The final training attempt of the night is undertaken; "Sit."
Just give me the biscuit.
"Sit."
fine, I'll go stand on my bed. Stuff biscuits.
"Sit."
What do you want? Why are you pushing at me like that, give me the freaking biscuit already.
"Sit."
No.
"Oh, alright, have the sodding biscuit."

I'm in a peculiar sort of limbo, not sure whether I'm starting next week or not, whether I'm supposed to be attending meetings or getting myself a job. I walk the dog, make earrings, talk to the bunny, walk the dog... all to the background of radio four and the rumble of the tube. I shop, returning to find Indigo lying where I left him standing nearly an hour before. I feel cruel for leaving him but I know he's not the sort of dog who will lie quietly outside sainsburys. I buy food for him, forgetting my own groceries in an attempt to tempt a palate that I suspect is only fussy because he's seeing how far I'll go to see that he eats. Oxo is rejected in favour of bisto, biscuits over weetabix despite the assurances of the rescue that most greyhounds like cereal for breakfast. Babybel are taken and delicately dropped on the floor, biscuits are taken and then crunched in his bed, leaving a trail of crumbs over the floor of my bedroom. The hoover is eyed with suspicion. Mozarella is consumed with gusto, cheddar is preferred, and carrots are really only acceptable after a few hours soaking in lukewarm gravy.

I wonder what I'll do this time next week - how early will I have to get up to ensure he gets a good walk before I leave for lectures? I have to buy a bike pump so I can cycle to camden instead of squeezing myself onto an already over-full and under-ventilated bendy bus for a tedious journey spent clasping a clammy yellow pole and trying not to hit anyone with my bag while desperately avoiding everyone else's eyes in the peculiar manner of the english on public transport. I will cycle through the park instead, even though I haven't cycled in years, don't own a bag suitable for carrying on a bike - I will have to get a rucksack or something - and I'm not even sure of the way.

I can't believe it's this close. Part of me doesn't want to go back, wants to live a life of not doing very much at all, but part of me is bored, needing something to stimulate the dusty spaces of my brain with the tedium of pH balance and protein synthesis. Even though I know what's coming, have the notes and fool myself into thinking I actually already know most of it. I'm not longer sure I do, though. I'm not sure I ever did.

Part of me wants to pick up and leave - take my dog and my bunny and pack my clothes into a suitcase and just go. Except I don't know where. I don't even know why; I've spent the last year longing for somewhere permanent-feeling, four walls I can call my own and yet the moment I'm withing them I want something more. Perhaps it isn't the need to leave, more the longing for an unidentifiable something - someone - that might complete this space. Until someone enters my four walls, and I am reminded how much I value this sancuary from the world.

To the people who are scared of dogs...

Ok, my dog. I know it's not thier fault - they have a phobia. I know he's not exactly a little fluffy toy, he is big, he does like to walk around with his mouth hanging open, but he is fucking terrified by 99.9% of people. There is a goddamned reason why he's walking against the wall and against me, because he's fucking stronger than I am and he freaked out yesterday and almost pushed me in front of a car because of some kid in a pram shouting at him. And he is scared of people so I don't make him walk next to them. Your kid screaming and hiding behind you and you stopping dead in the middle of the pavement is not helping you, her, me, or my dog. Especially when there are three men walking directly behind you who won't fucking get out of the way for some girl and her odd-looking dog. Forcing me and him to walk in the middle of the pavement next to your idiot daughter while she screams at him is not a good fucking idea, if you'd kept walking where you had been he would never have jumped like that and I would have been between him and her.

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.