Grass
If this note seems like it's been written by a drunk, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. And the rabbit is my witness.
And yes, we do now have a rabbit. And no, I wasn't particularly planning on getting one. But where we live in the magical Kingdom of Van Nuys (or the Florida of Los Angeles, as I call it), the neighbors have their own bush telegraph. So, last weekend, when several people messaged us to say a small domestic rabbit had been found on someone’s front lawn and needed rescued, I asked the boys if they had thoughts on what should be done.
To my surprise, Fergus was adamant that we should rescue it because, supposedly, he had ALWAYS wanted a rabbit. (I have been remiss as a parent, apparently.)
Mark, who was heading out to save a swarm of bees (don't even ask), stated his dance card was full for rescuing duty. So, I explained to Ferg that if he wanted the rabbit, he was tasked with getting a hutch and all rabbit accoutrements like food and bedding.
Practical Tip. Number 1: Should you happen to find yourself in the situation of rescuing a rabbit in the foreseeable future, please know that it's frankly bloody impossible to get an off-the-shelf hutch in the stores. It takes 3-5 days for delivery of all homes for bunnies. Therefore, Facebook Marketplace is your best and possibly only bet.
Practical Tip. Number 2: Do not under any circumstance put on Facebook that you're looking for a hutch for your rescue rabbit, because you won't get a hutch, but you will get a tsunami of advice about your prospective rabbit from unofficial Facebook Advisors who sit around all day waiting for people they can wholeheartedly advise. (Jeez, who knew that putting a rabbit in a hutch is the equivalent of slamming a human being into solitary confinement on death row. Or that rabbits are happiest when they get to watch TV with you or snuggle with you in your bed?)
Anyhoos, Ferg and Lachlan went off to pick up a hutch they found on Facebook Marketplace from some strangely strident guy in Panorama City who gave them a “20-minute window” for the pick up. When they returned home, hutch in hand, Lachlan said he reckoned the guy was going through a divorce, because he looked miserable and had only a rabbit hutch and kids’ toys for sale. I suggested there could have been plenty of other reasons, but when we stopped to consider what they were, we both agreed, divorce probably sounded best.
And so, later that night, bees rescued, bunny rescued, and hutch in place, we welcomed Grendel to the Tweddle clan.
She really is quite a lovely wee thing, who despite what the unofficial Facebook Advisors claimed, seemed incredibly grateful for the safety of a hutch and a warm bed of straw.
She doesn't watch TV with us, and there's no chance in Hell she's coming to snuggle up with us in bed, but we’ll work out a system for how she fits in with the rest of us here in Tweddley Manor, as we go along. For now, the hutch goes out in the backyard during the day when it's dry, and then at night, the hutch comes in and sits by the patio door until Grendel gets used to her new surroundings.
Now you may have been wondering how Arthur the dog has adapted to the new arrival. In short: he doesn't care. As far as he is concerned, anything smaller than him is distinctly tedious. Had we adopted a Rottweiler, that would have been an entirely different affair. He views the rabbit with supreme indifference and carries on as normal.
The other night, though, he woke me up.
Ooh, Dear Unofficial Facebook Advisors, Arthur does not snuggle with us in bed. He has a perfectly reasonable bed of his own in our bedroom. He does watch TV with us though, but is not a fan of romantic comedies.
Anyway, Arthur was evidently feeling off. He was pacing and scratching and snorting, and pacing and scratching and snorting. There was no choice but to get up and see what could be done.
From a corner of the hutch, Grendel watched through one beady eye when I turned on the light in the kitchen.
I offered Arthur some clean water. He wanted none. Instead, he stood at the patio doors wanting out. I hesitated. I hate him going out in the backyard at night. Our outdoor cameras have spotted raccoons out there so often, they should be getting their union cards. But there was nothing to be done.
I grabbed a giant hoodie and a torch and followed him out into the darkness.
Standing in my pajamas in the backyard at the arse-end hour of the morning, I took the opportunity of checking the chicken coops were all locked up safe. I was pleased to see the doors firmly closed, and hear the odd reassuring cluck when the torchlight passed over the coop. And I was incredibly grateful that when shining my torch round the backyard, it miraculously appeared to be raccoon-free.
Not so miraculously though, when the torchlight spotted Arthur, I could see he was guzzling up grass like a billionaire looking for tax breaks. He was manic. Worried he was going to do himself damage from grass eating, I moved to pick him up. And just as fast, he ran to another patch of grass. And so at arse-end o’clock, dressed in pajamas and a hoodie, improbably attempting to run in Crocs while holding a torch, and trying to catch a small dog and not disturb the neighbors, it did dawn on me that I am a fully grown woman, and this is not how I pictured my life. Finally, I grabbed a hold of him and brought him back in the house.
And then as I held him, I looked at his fur, and it was unmistakable. He had a flea.
There are certain points in life when ‘disappointing’ seems like a woefully inadequate word. Yet, that would be the word I’d use at that moment to describe all my previous life choices. Sometimes I laugh to myself about how, from time to time, I believe the rest of the world totally have their shit together and it’s just me who screws up. And then other times I’m convinced. Bad enough to have a sick dog. Twice as bad to have a sick dog with fleas. Your move, unofficial Facebook Advisors.
While Arthur paced, furious that I had taken him from his beloved grass, I ordered flea treatment from Amazon. (And yes, it is true that all billionaires are bastards. But if you can order flea treatment at 4 in the morning, then they periodically have their uses.) Mission accomplished, ordered settled, I turned my attention back to Arthur just as he promptly threw up. (It’s perhaps illustrative of how low I felt when I say I was absurdly grateful no carpet was involved.)
Grendel shuffled in her cage. Horrified.
I gave Arthur a pat, and told him he was a good boy to let him know he wasn’t in trouble. Then the poor guy sat there, dejected and scratching, as I cleaned up.
The clock on the wall said 4.50, but there was nothing else for it. Fleas are fleas, so though I was exhausted, I ran him a warm bath. And while all around me slept, Arthur in his bath looked up at me like I had just told him the secret of the Universe.
Afterwards, I made myself some tea and sat for a while by the patio doors. “If he’s going to be sick again, best we all stay away from the soft furnishings,” I said to the rabbit.
Grendel chewed on a piece of hay in agreement. And all the while, Arthur shook himself dry and seemed remarkably waggy-tailed.
So, finally at 5.45am, I managed to get to bed. Just in time for Genghis to offer up an early morning crow.
But I did sleep. For a few hours. And by the time I woke up, Arthur seemed fine, the flea treatment had arrived (yes billionaires, you have some uses), and the boys were none the wiser to the chaos of the evening.
“I love having a rabbit,” Fergus said. “When you look into her eyes, do you wonder what she’s thinking?”
“I try not to,” I replied.
And so, as this week ends, the dog is happy, the rabbit is happy, Fergus is happy, the bees seem happy. The unofficial Facebook Advisors are…well, never happy. And the guy who was selling the rabbit hutch is decidedly unhappy, but you know, divorce is rough.
And I might be happy - I’m too tired to tell to be honest. I can tell you that no neighbors have complained about some lunatic in pajamas waving a torch, so that has to be a good thing. And also in spite of all of the chaos, I did this week, manage to publish a book.
And Grendel the rabbit has totally settled in.
XO
PS: Please click on the heart emoji to like this post. If not for me, for a lonely, lost rabbit…kinda.
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