Rabbit Redux

My bunny is worse than my dog about treats, specifically, raisins (her latest lust) or bananas.

This trait, I find, is devastating for the owner (me) because not only does she look ten times cuter than the dog when begs for food, she's also much more of a shameless hussy about it (and I didn't think that was possible).

The dog at least pretends to want and enjoy my company. The bunny however, erely tolerates it, until there is food in the offing. Then she puts on her best Olivia Twist routine and becomes a bunny beggar from hell. If I leave the bag on the counter, she'll scratch at the cupboards. Yesterday I witnessed a heroic--if miscalculated--two foot vertical jump in the air to attempt to snag a bag of raisins off my bedside table.

In addition, she makes absolutely no pretenses whatsoever about drinking/eating out of the dog dish. Just now I filled up Piper's bowl, and she ran over, fully expecting a five course meal. She sniffed hopefully, then with increasing disdain at the water, as if to say, That's all?! Where's the good stuff, woman?! She even butts the dog out of the way and eats his kibble, and she's so persistent about it I actually have to feed the dog in a room where she isn't (you might say: hey stupid, shut her up in her cage. And I might say: Ah, yes, grasshopper, but you've never tried to catch a rabbit with your bare hands, have you?)

Now that she has a chocolate lop husbun (an elderly rescue rabbit who isn't quite as bright in the bunny brain department but whom she absolutely adores) she isn't so interested in my baseboards, which is a blessing. Both of them spend a great deal of time out on the porch in a bunnyproofed space, but they also are well-behaved enough to spend time unsupervised in the house like a dog or a cat, as long as the cables and electrical cords are covered (this is minor bunnyproofing compared to a lot of other schemes I had to employ when she was younger, such as Constant Vigilance).

They mostly keep to themselves, and wile the day away dozing under a lamp table, rising only to nibble hay and deprieve the dog of rightful ownership and access to his own nourishment. Flipflop spends an inordinate amount of time grooming her bunny boy bald, and both seem to like to gossip surreptitiously on the pressing issue of how next to dupe the Gulliable Human One into giving them banana sundaes. At least, that's what they appear to be doing. Rabbits may not talk, but they certainly communicate, and it's highly endearing to watch two rabbits incline their heads towards another as if to say, "Hey, what do you think about that big two-legged oaf over there? Think we can con her into more strawberries?"

I haven't really named the boy bunny, referring to him as alternately as The Brown One, The Boy One or my made up term of endearment for bunnies in general, 'Boonis'. He's got a little bit of renal failure going on, and isn't as neat with his litterbox habits as Flipflop, but he's very mellow and doesn't mind being pet (whereas Flipflop hates it with impunity; to her mind, it's just not dignified lady bunny bheavior to let oneself be mauled and cuddled by some idiot human). He seems to like to nibble my toes; I have no idea if this is an affectionate gesture or he finds them aromatic and a possible tier on the bunny food pyramid.

He isn't particularly agile or atheletic, and seems to be bothered by arthritic hips. Whereas Flipflop is bunny magic in motion, careening gracefully around the room and mountaineering with surprising agility over my living room furniture (she has curiously enough never tried to jump on my bed)--the old guy clunks around without a trace of flair, often getting too close and underfoot. The bunny rescuer felt bad about his geriatric health issues--I think they originally thought he was a bit younger--and offered to let me trade him for another bunny, but I was already too attached (as was Flipflop) and couldn't bear the thought of returning a bunny who had been given up once any way.

After all, I had gotten him for Flipflop because I felt so guilty about leaving her in her cage alone for fourteen hours a day when I worked (I felt I had no choice, though, unless I wanted to come home to a Rabbit Interior Design Project every day). Smart and inquisitive, she bores easily. Since the introduction of the boy, she hasn't given a second glance at the baseboards, so my scheme paid off. Happier rabbit = happier slave human.

Flipflop always has an inquisitive, intelligent spark in her eye--unless she's zoning out--but my boy is more often than not found sitting around with a doleful, nearly baleful look about him. He seems somewhat melancholy, and I wonder if deep down in the recesses of his gentle bunny soul, he misses the people who moved and gave him to the shelter. He probably spent more than five years of his life with them, and it's not unreasonable in my animal loving, over-anthropomorphizing mind to think that pet bunnies grieve just like dogs or cats when their masters move away without them.

I've found rabbits to be much more aloof and shy than the average housecat (at least, Flipflop is; we humans have our purposes, oh yes, but providing suffocating physical affection is not it). She is cheeky, reserved, and not at all fond of human touch, despite having been raised in an indulgent, loving household. My bond to her is much more subtle; I delight in having her run to the front of her cage when I'm in the room (Let me out, stupid!), hop hopefully over to the refrigerator door when it opens (What's for supper, ma?), cavort madly about the house, jump on top of my laptop while I'm sitting on the couch, and do her famous Dead Bunny impression which she is named after, namely flipping over on her side, crossing her front paws as if in prayer, and conking out.

In rabbit language, these things mean "I'm comfortable with you, Big Klutzy Human, and I like you." Only the most relaxed, trusting rabbit would ever give herself over to a closed eyed, nose-twitching nap in front of a being five hundred times her own size and weight, and it's a huge compliment from an otherwise aloof-seeming rabbit that she does. Once she was so deeply asleep that when I opened the front door, she didn't even wake up, but continued on with her nap until I surreptitiously ended it by ascertaining she wasn't, in fact, a victim of a bunny cardiac arrest.

Being owned by a rabbit is a relationship of subtle joys and endless surprise at their individual wit, charm and sense of humor. When it comes to rabbits, there's no such thing as a dumb bunny.