Feeling gloomy and neglected in the dismal springtime, our aged houserabbit Olly had a cunning plan: pretend to be ill and get pampered to death.
And our aim was exactly that because, just like Roland before him, he suddenly lost almost all the use of his back legs. Like Roland therefore, he wouldn't last much longer; we must make his final days very happy. We began showering him with favourite greens and oats, letting him select only the colourful bits of his dry mix, and giving him constant attention until his body gently gave up.
It is two months now. His appetite is greater than ever, he loves the pampering, and he has perfected methods of making demands; he only has to raise his head and glower and we rush over to proffer a banana chip and stroke his furry brow. If we have misunderstood his demand, he growls like a bear. If we hold his parsley incorrectly, he snarls and gives us a nip. From time to time he even manages to convey a martyr'd, "No, you go - I'll be alright..."
We're uneasy about inviting anyone to the house since, in spite of daily dunking of his nethers, the fragrance of bun is all-pervading. (You can always tell when someone's trying to hold their breath).
What do we do? Two months ago we had the trauma of imminent loss; now we have the trauma of perpetual hanging-in-there.
Oh damn! He'll probably leave us out of his Will now.
The Fenland Reed
19 hours ago