Our Bunny Slave

Dad says he is our slave and has to do all this work in preparing our food for us. (Well, duh, obviously.)

Honestly I don’t see what the problem is – it doesn’t look like much work to me.

Though next time I’d prefer if he put that food in my bowl instead of storing it. In fact, just give it all to me!


betsy face closeup

Ms. Bunny Manners

After eating a big meal (and scattering bits of it around the floor of course) it’s important to rest and relax, to allow time for digestion. This lets your host know that you found the meal… acceptable.

bunnies lounging

Needless to say, Gus and I are experts at this.


betsy face closeup

Eating Bunny-Style

Sometimes I like to enjoy my dinner bunny-style.

And by “bunny-style” I mean “pulling it out of the food bowl and onto the floor.”

betsy nomming on parsley

Dad doesn’t always appreciate this; but who cares what he thinks? (Not me!)


betsy face closeup


Gus wasn’t impressed with dinner the other night (I think he missed the carrots we usually get).

dinner is served

But I don’t mind – that just means more for me!

betsy takes a bite


“Sharing” is “Caring”

Some of you might have heard that Dad was feeding both of us critical care lately. Well, yes, he was. And we hated him for it. But we put up such a fight about it that he finally stopped.

Oh, and we started eating with more enthusiasm too. Maybe that helped. (I doubt it – it was totally our disapproval that did the trick, I’m sure of it.)

Anyway, dad was all happy when he saw us “sharing” a carrot this morning:

gus and betsy sharing a carrot

The thing is, he doesn’t understand that we have a different definition of “sharing.” As in, this carrot is MINE, Betsy, and you can’t have it, and I’m going to pick it up and take it over to the other corner so I can eat it in peace… and then you’re going to come and take it from me, and I’m going to have to grunt and take it back, and then dad’s going to have to swoop in and “remind” us that actually, yes, he did put out 2 carrots (one for each of us).

Which, of course, we already knew. We just like to play with your mind, dad.

p.s. We are fine, and don’t you ever dare try to syringe feed us critical care again. GOT IT, DAD???