With all this chicken talk going on, it is the rabbit who really rules the roost around here.
And thinks she’s a dog.
She really does, you know, like to pretend that she’s a dog.
Except when she’s heading towards my tender young Delphinium shoots that are sprouting in the flowerbed. Then we are quite certain that she’s not off to dig them up, but rather fill her face with everything that she can before I freak out and chase her out of there.
I truly have yet to meet the dog who would mow my greenery down to the dirt without blinking an eye.
There is nothing this rabbit likes better than a good petting down. She will lay flat on the dirt, sprawled out in complete bliss when you pet her head to toe.
Until she sees me, that it.
She likes Mike.
Not me so much.
Which, in my opinion, is completely unfair considering that *I* was the one who saw her at the Humane Society and loved her from moment one.
The one who convinced that guy petting her that we needed a rabbit and we needed to rescue her.
I still don’t know why.
See that look she’s giving me?
That ain’t gratitude or love.
That’s a “git your human paws away from my man” look.
I think I am going to have to have a talkin’ with this rabbit of mine and establish who the queen bee of this household really is.
Though I am rather scared I will come out on the losing side and end up sleeping in a rabbit hutch tonight.