On Thursday morning The Bunny died. He got sick on Wedneday evening, by bed time he couldn't walk and by the morning he could barely move at all. We thought he was about five years old, but by the vet's reckoning he was closer to ten. Our daft and childlike bunny became an old man overnight.
The Rabbit's sad, he won't come out of his hutch. The Bunny stole his food, peed on his head, humped him mercilessly and demanded all of the attention but he was a rabbit, which is infinitely better than a human. And he was his friend.
We buried him where the wild things grow. Where bunnies roam free and edible things appear freely out of the ground. He would have liked that.
When we went to use the picnic basket yesterday we discovered that we had left an apple in it after our last trip. Which would explain why it so often had a rabbit sitting on it over the last fortnight. We also discovered that the wicker work had been chewed off one of the handles. The Bunny has left a path of destruction in his wake, a hundred nibbles to remind us of how much he meant to us.
. image by me