Bathing Rabbits.

Quite honestly a no-go sort of thing, but my father wagered his socks that the sun was warm enough to dry the rabbits before they catch the hypothermia train, so we had them quickly soaked and soaped and un-soaped and then chucked into the garden, where they camped wet and flustered, and made disgruntled attempts to shake the water off their paws.


(Note that bathing your rabbits is inadvisable. Unless dried very, very efficiently, your rabbit is more likely to stay at one corner of its cage for a few minutes, and then keel over into a salutation to the sun. By this time, grab a plastic bag.)


Now the rabbits smelled like anti-flea cat shampoo, and I know they’re not quite happy with it, proven by the couple of times I see Ms. Grey trying to rub it off onto the grass. Beats smelling like overused gloves, missy.


We don’t get a lot of sun these days, and the crappy thing is; we don’t get a lot of rain either. The weather is caught in this sort of uncertain limbo, or probably playing the game of running towards the waves and then leaping backwards when the waves lurch forward; the skies will amass an interesting ensemble of dark clouds (with the orchestral accompaniment of Thunder and Lightning), prompting the neighbours to rush out to their clothes, and then reverting back into a dull canvas of gloomy emptiness. The nights turn the house into baking oven and the mornings lack the sense of hovering chill; all you get is dry whiffs of wind and that’s it.


Isn’t it springtime somewhere?