Nesting

Ahhh, Spring...what can I say, it was a beautiful day today...sunny, warm, but not too warm...and it put me in the mood for a little redecorating. I was going for a Martha-esque shabby chic here...is it too much?




I think the Food Lady will love it...don't you?

xoxox
Parsley

Sunday = Bunday

Sundays are one of my favorite days of the week, since the Food Lady and I get to hang out and be buns together most of the day. The only glitch is that, at some point in the day, my Food Lady insists on taking out the Purple Suckmonster and chasing me around the burrow with it. I cannot fathom how she can stand to keep such a thing in the house; the Big One shows much more sense regarding the Monster, preferring to leave it chained up in a corner and rarely, if ever, setting it loose. The Food Lady, however, insists on performing this strange ritual every Sunday, and on other days at irregular intervals, as well.

The Monster is particularly noxious because it makes a loud roaring/whining noise, sucks up everything in its path, and cannot be escaped by hiding under the bed. No, the Monster is able to stick its long neck right under the bed and suck up all the lovely fluffy bits I have been working all week to pull out of the carpet! Truly unthinkably rude, this creature is, and dangerous to boot. I have done what I can to attempt to destroy the monster: I discovered its main artery, a long, thin cord hanging down from its neck, and chewed through it time and time again while it slept an unnatural slumber, and yet to no avail; the Monster re-awoke each Sunday as if nothing had happened. I truly believe it to be some form of unnatural demon, and I doubt my Food Lady's sanity for trammeling with such dark arts.

I have posted its picture here so that you, too, can be on the lookout for the Purple Suckmonster in case it attempts to invade your burrow:

Good luck, and Happy Bunday,

Parsley

xoxox

My Checkered Past

Despite my excellent breeding, charming personality, good looks, and meticulous personal hygiene, I have not always lived the life of luxury to which I have grown accustomed. In fact, I dare say my personal history is a cautionary tale of how even the best among us can and do fall from grace. You see, as hard as it may be to believe, I was once homeless.

Yes, I was a victim of the Great Recession. As a young bun, I was adopted into a warren with a nice companion who provided me with adequate nourishment and social activity. However, my burrowmate was rarely around to spend time with me, as she was forced to spend more and more time out of the burrow foraging for food. Now, we buns crave constant attention and companionship, and I was growing weary with the arrangement, and I believe the strain of seeing me lonely and forlorn each evening led my companion to take the drastic step of abandoning me in disgrace at the City Animal Shelter.

I was still quite a young bun at the time, and my memories of my time spent at the shelter are vague; perhaps I have already blocked most of the horrors from my mind. However, I do remember spending days in a cold metal cell, with no opportunity to snuggle up with a companion and share body heat, much less to receive a good head rub or ear scratch. Visitors would occasionally release me into a small pen where I would do my best to stretch my legs and get some much-needed exercise; however, I was always wary, as we rabbits were not the only animals in this part of the shelter. No, I was relegated to something called the Small Animal Room, in which were housed, along with about a dozen or so sad and lonely rabbits, several guinea pigs, rats, mice, and various kinds of birds and fowl. Now, I am an open-minded bun, and I did not on principle mind sharing space with these various species, although the young male rats did sometimes look rather lasciviously in my direction; but one creature in particular was my nemesis: the Giant Rooster. I have no idea what such a creature was doing living in the city in the first place; it seems a ridiculous place for such a large and loud barnyard animal to reside. And yet, there he was in the City Animal Shelter: nearly two feet high at his ruddy crest, easily eight pounds of pure, dimwitted machismo, and with an earsplittingly loud crow which reverberated at irregular intervals off the metallic walls of the Small Animal Room. Needless to say, I was aghast at the sight and sound of this particular burrowmate. Little did I know, however, that he would play a key role in uniting me with my future Food Lady.

You see, occasionally visitors looking for new burrowmates would enter the Small Animal Room and be inspected by one or more of its residents. The visitor would be placed in one of the recreation pens, and shelter residents would take turns inspecting the visitor to see if a good match would be made. I myself inspected several visitors in this fashion, but was never particularly impressed. Then, one day, my Food Lady appeared and sat in the recreation pen with some of the other rabbits. At this point in my incarceration, I admit that I had grown rather despondent and withdrawn. I had more or less given up hope that I would once again have my own burrow with my own thoughtful burrowmates to dote on me and bring me tender greens. Thus I gave the young female visitor little attention, assuming she would leave empty-handed, as had so many other visitors before her.

When I was placed in the pen with this visitor, I paid her little mind at first, as I was more interested in attempting to stretch and tone my cramped legs. She did offer me some delicious parsley, which I of course accepted politely. I was guarded, however, because the dreaded Giant Rooster so happened to also be taking his recreation at that time. (The poultry were never placed in recreation pens, of course, since they would just flap their way out of them at will). I was cautiously examining the perimeter of the pen when, for no apparent reason at all, the Giant Rooster flapped up and into my pen, and began to pummel my visitor with his scaly, clawed feet and wings! Being a valiant bun, I instantly leapt to defend the visitor, but realizing that I was no match for the awful bird, I instead moved into defensive posturing behind her back. In that moment, I knew: I had to get that poor visitor out of there and safely back to her burrow so that she would never be attacked by the rooster again! I made it clear to my attendants that I had chosen this one as my new companion, and we were both safely back in our new burrow within that same day.

In retrospect, perhaps that old Giant Rooster was not so much my nemesis as a strange incarnation of Destiny. For without his intervention, I might never have decided to go with my Food Lady back to her burrow. Life works in funny ways; I for one think my brush with transience has made me a better bun, more appreciative of the finer things in life, and of course I now have my Food Lady to rub between my ears and provide me with delicious, organically-grown, local delicacies at my slightest demand. In fact, I think it's getting to be about dinner time; I think I'll go chew on something until she gets the hint!

Yours Truly,
Parsley
xoxox

My Royal Lineage

The striped and spotted marking on the adorable fingerling bunnies in Tuesday's video post reminded me of my recent forays into genealogy, in which I attempted to lift the veil of mystery surrounding my birth and origins. For, while I am assured of my royal heritage, I have never been completely certain of my exact breeding and lineage, since I never met my father and was taken from my mother at a tender age. Thankfully, being a bunny of the internet era, I was able to do some basic research and uncover some likely clues to my genetic heritage.

I believe myself to be of the English Spot breed, one of the oldest breeds of rabbit, and one renowned for its gentle personality as well as for its glamorous, sought-after spot patterns. In fact, the French name for the breed is "lapin papillon anglais," or English Butterfly Rabbit, referring to the butterfly marking on our noses, which I feel I exhibit quite nicely. (English Spots with imperfect nose markings are known as "Charlies" since their marking resemble a small moustache). However, sources cite our "curious and fun-loving nature" as our best quality, and I must say I do agree with that description!

Below, I have posted my latest glamour shot alongside a 19th-century illustration of the "perfect" English Spot rabbit -- a Platonic ideal of rabbithood that has certainly never been attained, although I do think I come rather close -- what do you think?

You do see the family resemblance, don't you?

xoxox
Parsley

Typical Tuesday Evening...

Food Lady was late getting home for my dinner tonight. I voiced my displeasure by running and hiding under the bed until just now.

The only thing that provided a bit of solace was this video found on Cuteoverload:



Despite the overwhelming cuteness, I am still too fussy to write more tonight. Hoping tomorrow will provide greener pastures...

Parsley
xo

Greetings!

Hello, world! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Her Royal Highness Miss Princess Pretty Spots, but you can call me Parsley for short, as does my Food Lady. I live in a tidy burrow in a quiet quarter of the most fabulous city in the world, where the temperature is rarely over 65 degrees, there are remarkably few ferocious wild beasts, and I can have all the organically-grown leafy greens I desire delivered directly to my door. I share my burrow with two rather large and dimwitted rabbits, who through some cruel freak of nature have ridiculously small ears and refuse to hop properly on all four paws, instead choosing to remain almost exclusively in the up-periscope position (on hind legs, front paws aloft). In fact, my burrow-mates rarely hop at all, although they do spend a fair amount of time lounging around sharing body heat and conserving energy.

Despite the odd behavior and physiognomy of my burrow-mates, they are generally docile and attentive servants. I have the Food Lady, as I call her, particularly well-trained. Each morning as I rise with the sun, I summon her by jumping down from the loft of my custom-made condo, making just enough of a clatter to remind her of her duties. She quickly comes to my aid, taking my bunny-shaped serving dish into the Food Room and returning with the dish full of a special blend of fortifying, high-fiber bunny cereal. She is quite prompt with these attentions on weekdays, so on the weekends I usually let her sleep in an hour or so.

The other rabbit, The Big One, is usually less prompt at reveille, and furthermore, he does not yet seem to understand the importance of regular servings of fresh, locally grown greens in my diet. The Food Lady, you see, understands that each time I retire to my condo, I simply must be provided with an ample serving of fresh and tender greens (Italian flat-leafed parsley being my greatest weakness, thus my moniker); my sensitive digestive system simply requires this treatment. The Big One, on the other hand, is in the unfortunate habit of closing my Privacy Gate behind me without providing me with the requisite snacks. I am working on this one slowly and patiently; I feel he must have some sort of lagomorphic learning difference to not be grasping this small request.

I am understanding with my burrow-mates and their occasional lapses in proper bunny behavior, for without them, I would surely go hungry. The reason for this is that, being a City Rabbit, I do not have access to my own grazing pastures. Instead, I rely on my hearty companions to venture regularly into the Food Room, a place that is shrouded in mystery and danger. Being royalty, I myself am not required to take the risk of venturing into this treacherous zone -- my stalwart companions, however, are always willing to do so for my sake and to return carrying whatever it is I might require.

In return, I protect my hapless companions from a slew of dangers unheard by their pitiful, under-formed ears. Each morning, after I have consumed my meal, I make a complete inspection of the burrow's perimeter, on the lookout for any dangerous obstacles that may have cropped up overnight. Tangling cords, dangling shoelaces, unnecessarily sharp corners, and any other threats, I pare away carefully with my razor-sharp teeth, until all possible escape routes are clear. Then, I place myself strategically in the middle of the burrow, and listen in for any warning signals from neighboring warrens. If I hear a thump, I race through the burrow warning my companions, who usually do not bother to flee to their nest, knowing as they do that I have already secured the perimeter and that this is only a test.

After I have tested the alarm system and secured the perimeter -- a process which is really quite exhausting -- I retire to one of my two favorite nests. One I share with my burrowmates, although they have a strange habit of remaining on top of the nest, instead of underneath, where it is much safer. This nest is made of wood and is covered on top by a large quantity of soft and fluffy bedding materials; underneath, my burrowmates have helpfully provided a thick, plush carpet for me to repose upon. My other nest I refer to as "the condo"; my Food Lady built it for me from a custom design including a sleeping loft, a French oak nest with plush mattress, and of course, spacious toilettes. My mother taught me from a young age the importance of good personal hygiene -- no nasty messes in our burrow!

In short, I live quite the life of luxury here in the City By the Bay, and I look forward to updating you regularly with all the news from our burrow. As for any young bucks out there looking for a pen pal, feel free to leave a post! ;)

xoxox
Parsley