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Tyler Talks “Vote For Me”

August 15th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

The position for NYC Mayor is up for grabs and I’m the cat for the job. It’s no more laughable than that Weiner guy I heard about wanting to assume the post. At first I thought he was one of those dogs. You know, the frankfurter ones but then I found out he’s a Bean. Franks and Beans, I queried? No no no, they said, a Human Bean. But then later they confirmed he really is a dog, so I was right the first time. But the canine club vehemently disputes this and rightfully so, calling him a clown. But I think they must be confusing him with Pee Wee Herman……or maybe not. In any case, the office of mayor is serious business, one of which requires certain qualifications, such as I possess:

Must register with the NYC Finance Board – Check!tyler

File periodic disclosure statements – Check!

Observe CFB limits. Not exactly sure what the anacronym stands for but it must be Cats For Beans. This will be observed but without limitations, after all Hemingway had LOTS of cats – Check!

Comply with NYS Board of Elections campaign financial disclosure requirements – uh, okay – Check!

So you see, I’m your perfect candidate and not just all talk. As NYC Mayor I propose to be your biggest advocate for the homeless, not restricted to cats (and dogs) but Beans as well. The more Beans that have a roof over their heads, the more potential homes there will be for cats (and dogs). In the meantime, since I will not be residing at Gracie Mansion, all of the homeless will be housed there until other accommodations can be had.

As mayor, I will enforce a mandatory two and a half day work week. Monday, Tuesday and a half day on Wednesday for half the NYC population while the other half will work the remaining half day on Wednesday, then Thursday and Friday. There will absolutely be no weekends worked EVER. This will free up more time for the Beans to spend with their pets at home catering to their every whim. Beans working at designated animal shelters and pet friendly businesses such as Petco will receive a tax break. There will be no dress code other than the required brightly colored flea collar.

No one will go hungry. There will be plenty of Fancy Feast to go around by stepping up production of this fine cuisine. What? Beans don’t like Fancy Feast? Nonsense! They’ll never know the difference after 5 star restaurants mix it all up in the entree. Dogs like it too and will be required to accompany their Beans at table at all the finest establishments. There will be no discrimination!

In an effort to spark tourism, the musical production of Cats will play at NYC’s theatre district indefinitely along with The Lion King. And as a nod to the American Girl Place on Fifth Avenue, we will begin construction alongside for American Copy Cat, copying the same concept where folks can bring their felines to dress them up in the latest fashions, get high end salon treatments, and buy lunch at exorbitant prices. Sounds silly? Nothing silly about cashing in on the frivolities of Beans and turning a profit.

There are over 8 million Beans in the City of New York, and countless numbers of cats (and dogs). I know I won’t get all the votes but I am optimistic. Just don’t get dog slobber all over the ballot machines. Some Beans are opposed to it and cats detest it.

So……….whadayathink? I think I can win by personality alone, not to mention my striking good looks. At least that’s what they tell me. When  I look in the mirror I just see another cat. I wish he’d stop staring at me. It’s so rude. But I’ll be amiable. I just might get his vote!

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Tyler Talks Vo-Cat-ulary

August 4th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

tylerIt’s astonishing how many words in the English language begin with the letters C-A-T. This is no accident and although the Human Beans acredit themselves with this distinction, the simple truth is, cats are the ones responsible. Isn’t it obvious? Felines consider this misnomer cat-a-strophic! Here is just a sampling of some of the words and how they originated.

Catechism:

Cats are very spiritual and founded the first known retreat at the base of a chasm in (where else?) Katmandu. It was called Katachasm but over the course of time the Beans changed the spelling to suit their own needs. I’m not sure why nor is it of any real significance.

Catatonic:

In times of illness a special elixer or tonic was prepared rendering the feline immobile assuming a trancelike state. The original recipe may have included too much gin. Needless to say, cats have abandoned the practice altogether and leave it to the Beans to continue this bizarre behavior.

Catacomb:

This word is attributed to the long haired feline variety such as Persians and Angoras who require a special grooming device called a comb. These tools were originally discovered during an archeological dig uncovering an ancient crypt in Egypt where cats of royalty were entombed. In the years following, the Beans adopted the burial procedure but many of them were bald. The name “catacomb” however remains the same with or without the hair.

Catalog:

How many cats can perform feats of acrobatics balanced on a log? The answer is in our archives. The contest was first held in the jungles of Africa by our forefathers. Every year since, the names of the contestants and the winners have been filed for posterity. This filing system is still used by some old timer Beans today but the dawn of technology has rendered the filing cabinet obsolete.

Catamaran:

Oddly enough, this word was born as a direct result of the cat-a-log contests. The leftover logs were used to create rafts for a flotilla honoring the winners. Much like a ticker tape parade but without the ticks. It was called Catamaran for no particular reason. It just sounded cool.

Cathartic:

A derivitive of the word Cat-artic, the first feline explorer of the region staked his flag to inform all new comers they were trespassing into a “no ice fishing” zone.  It was a good way to purge himself of all the grief it took to get there and stake a claim into territory he would probably never set paw in again. Writing his memoirs was very cathartic. The Beans inserted the H to make it more “human”.

So……………whadayathink? Becha never knew cats were responsible for some of the most interesting words in the language of Beans. I learned all of this from my grandfather who was a great spinner of yarn. They said he had a tall tail.

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Tyler Talks Bullying

July 29th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

I’m sorry I could not get to blog sooner but I have had a tough weekend. All right, I’m the new kid on the block, I get it. But two against one is no fair. Both Clemetine and Snowshoe have been ganging up on me. Why? Is it because I’m cute? Because I get treated the same way they do even though I just got here? Why can’t I walk across a room minding my own business without having Clementine growl at me? It’s very unladylike. And if I want to play with the toys, Snowshoe wakes up out of a sound sleep, gets up and gives me the eye. Then he POUNCES on me. Scared the bejesus out of me! What’s a poor cat to do? Oh. Did I say I was playing with the toys? I was only pretending to like them. I wouldn’t want the Beans to get too self satisfied. I like watching them play with the feathery thing on the long pole. They look ridiculous.tyler

When Clementine leaves the room, I naturally want to follow her to see what she’s up to. How else will I get to know everything that goes on around here? Like, is there a hidden stash of food somewhere, something other than what the Beans normally serve? Are there secret hiding places I don’t know about, perhaps leading to the outside world? Then I can make my get-away and hop a plane back to Texas where things are more normal. It’s a good thing I still have my paratrooper’s gear somewhere in case I have to make an emergency sky dive. I’d rather deal with scorpians in the desert than have old Tuna Breath hiss in my face one more time. How insulting! These Long Islanders have no manners compared to a southern gentleman like myself. It’s a good thing they haven’t found out about my Facebook page yet. I will not “friend” them.

The Beans have been really great throughout this whole ordeal. They will not let those kids get the upper paw. At one time Snowshoe was banished to the basement. Ha! And Clementine retreated to the dining room. She probaly thought she was gonna have some sort of candlelit dinner or something, but they YELLED at her. Ha! Ha! I can’t wait until I’m around long enough for them to yell at me. Then I’ll be as important as they are.

The thing to remember about being bullied is, stand your ground. Thus far I have been sent reeling for the safety of the dolls under their chair. But they wouldn’t get involved.  They didn’t even bat an eyelash. They always pretend I’m not even there. I honestly don’t know what’s worse. Being the center of bullying attention or ignored completely. As soon as I get a chance I’m going to pull their curls out. Maybe knock the little one on the floor. That’ll wipe the smirk off her face.

So………………….whadayathink? What should be my next move if I can’t climb out the window? Should I swat the little white spot off Snowshoe’s face? Should I hold the door open for Clementine (in all politeness) to make her exit? Why should I be the one to leave? I’ll give her my paratrooper’s gear and a one way ticket to Nacogdoches.

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The Three Muskateers

July 25th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

samkatieWhen you think of Keith and Katie, you naturally include Sam. My nephew Keith raised him  from a pup, and when he met his future wife Katie, she embraced them both as a package deal. They never went anywhere without Sam, inexorably linked like the parts of an interlocking puzzle.

We first laid eyes on Sam when Michael and I arrived at my brother’s house in the mountains several summers ago. I knew ahead of time to expect him there but purposely neglected to tell Michael to prevent any angst on his part knowing his aversion to German Shepherds stemmed from an unfortunate childhood experience. When our Jeep pulled up the driveway alongside the house, there he was sprawled formidably on the front lawn, the quintessential Big Bad Wolf, all toothy grin. Oh no, Michael muttered in distress. Even I had my reservations but didn’t let on. Dogs invariably sense fear. They say he’s really mellow, I offered as we both sat strapped to our seats reluctant to get out. Just then the family bounded out of the house and we were more inclined to join them. They were right. Sam was so calm, he ignored us entirely.

Keith and Katie had made the long trek from Arizona choosing to drive cross country so they could bring Sam along. This ritual was repeated nearly every summer since, sometimes staying for the entire season until they were called away on a job assignment. In the business of assessing disaster sights nationwide for insurance purposes, wherever they were sent, Sam tagged along. This was not always convenient when attempting to smuggle a 150 pound pedigree into a hotel room restricting pets. Explicit instructions were delivered to hotel staff declining maid service in effort to conceal Sam’s living arrangements which oftentimes extended into weeks if not months before assessment in a particular disaster sight was completed. In all the years Sam accompanied them, they were never found out.

In more recent times, Sam’s age had taken its toll, forcing him to become more and more sedentary. Keith and Katie would stop at nothing to make him more comfortable, including the purchase of a water bed and even attaching a set of wheels to his hind legs for added mobility. However, try as they might, it was only a matter of time before they faced the inevitable. That time came today at 4 pm Arizona time, 7 pm New York time. Sam was euthanized by the local veterinarian. At the appointed time, we all sent happy thoughts Sam’s way. Thoughts of grass green meadows where he could run unimpeded by the infirmities that restricted him the latter part of his life. Thoughts of joyful family reunions under cheerful summer skies, Sam bouncing with endless energy like the puppy he once was.

Keith and Katie, we know how very difficult this is for you and there are no words to express the ache in our hearts that match your own. We just can’t imagine Sam without the two of you. The three muskateers bushwacking your way through the jungles of upstate New York or exploring the deserts of the wild west. You gave Sam the very best of yourselves and he reciprocated love and loyalty immeasurable. Sam, we will miss your stately presence. Happy Trails.

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Tyler Talks Toy Shop

July 21st, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

tylerEver notice how excited the Human Beans get about the toys they buy for you? One would think they were going to play with them themselves. They parade in armed with bags and much commotion talking amongst themselves about how they “only went in to buy one thing”. Out of these bags, spilling onto the floor are assorted objects made up of feathers, bells and pom poms announcing their arrival like trumpets heralding the birth of a new king while the Beans prance about like jesters disturbing a perfectly sound sleep. They begin by poking prodding and jiggling these objects while frantically repeating my name over and over like deranged clowns desperate for attention. I watch through half closed eyes feigning sleep and boredom as they finally give it up abandoning the objects and peace reigns once more. Thank the Egyptian god Isis, they have gone.

I move a tentative paw towards the mouse that more resembles a crazed inmate in prison garb than rodent. It jingles. Must be the chains on his ankles. It lies still playing possum but I’m familiar with his game. With a single swipe he’s sent flying trapeze-like under the sofa back to Alcatraz. Several musical spheres head in the same direction deftly delivered with poised precision. The rat will need them to amuse himself as there is no escape from the island.

All that’s left is a long slender strip of striped cloth posing as a rattler acutely aware of its unappealing existence. I leave it alone. It’s liable to make a fool of me. To this the Beans return nearly a quarter of an hour later incredulously asking “what happened to all of the toys???” Shock and disbelief mar their previously joyous expressions as they glare accusingly at me. They stoop on all fours (finally maneuvering in an acceptable manner) to look for the useless objects but sensibly avoid Alcatraz. Too risky.

The obvious position of my relaxed state assures them of my innocence and releases them from any further embarrassment. YAWN! Now where’s my dinner?

So…………….whadayathink? Do you have to put up with this insane form of behavior from your Beans? Any ideas on how to better control them? I think tripping them up from time to time may help.

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Tyler Talks Cheese

July 14th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

tylerHaving recently read the book “Who Moved My Cheese” by Dr. Spencer Johnson (well, of course I can read, I’m writing. aren’t I?) I have incorporated its findings for use in my present situation. First and foremost, this is not a book just for mice and men, and not to be confused with Of MIce And Men. “Cheese” is just a metaphor for whatever it is you don’t want changed. And we, as cats, detest change.

The change in question came about when they kitnapped me. I was perfectly fine where I was down at the ranch with all the other cow pokes (or is it cat pokes, some of them did poke at me but I poked right back). I did not ask anyone to move my cheese. Who ate all the cheddar anyway? I think it was the Human Beans who moved it in the first place. They will stop at nothing to fulfil their own selfish interests while I must make do with the dried up cereal that’s supposed to serve as breakfast, lunch and dinner. Oh, they give me some of that wet food too, that looks like vomit, but it’s actually not bad. However, it’s not what they would eat, oh no! They get the finest cuts of turkey and throw me the scraps once in awhile. (Mmmm! It was rather tasty and nice of them to offer.)

The whole point is, my cheese has been moved, like it or not. Ah! Let me repeat, “like it or not”. You are better off pretending to like it just to throw them off guard. You have to adapt. You know, survival of the fittest, and cats have been expert at this for thousands of years. That’s why we’re still around. Well, some of us did shrink in size but evolution saw to it that we could curl ourselves into the coziest of places, all for our own comfort and convenience.

In short, I have sought out several of these comfort zones and am quite at home now, cheese or no cheese. Now where’s that mouse?

So……………….whadayathink? Read this childlike book with adult vision and you too can be a cat. Not just another self-help book but a help-yourself-to-some cheese- book. Who doesn’t like swiss except for all the holes? That stupid mouse has been at it again.

Incidentally, have you noticed the dramatic improvement in my spelling? Just one week around Dad’s books has turned me into something of a scholar. I’m giving him some stiff competition. (Grinning like a cheshire).

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My Kind Of People

April 24th, 2013 by Magdalena Tabor

Growing up, and even through my twenties, I had a lot of friends. There were always three or four especially good ones I could confide in. But then life moves on and we develop closer bonds with our spouses, and if we have children the circle widens to include the parents of their friends and so on. Relatives, once the staple in the branching of the family nucleus, either move away or broaden their horizons much the way our former friends had. If, like me, you don’t have children, you might seek the companionship of the ever loyal canine, or in my case, have a predisposition to feline fancy. As a kid, I always loved them and still do, now more than ever.
What is it about cats that I admire more so than most people? For one thing, they’re adorably cute. How many adults can you say that about? They don’t tell you what to do and they do what they want. Wait. Let me rephrase that. They do tell you what to do and they do what they want but you don’t mind doing it (most of the time). They’re resourceful. If it’s raining out and you’re not home to let them in, they’ll wait it out under the awning or under a bush and never bellyache about it. They don’t whine the way people do and unlike people who are easily distracted or pretend to care, when you talk to your pets they actually listen. They may not know what you’re saying but a gentle rub against the knee does more to console than anything anyone can say. I could go on and on about the attributes of my sphinxlike friends. Why is it then, they’re so hated by some people?
They don’t come when you call them? How would you like to come running every time someone goes, spss, spss, spss? They poop in your garden? Consider it free fertilizer and a lot less expensive than what you can purchase at The Home Depot, or be a man and dispose of it with your wife’s cute little garden gloves. You pick up dog poop, don’t you? It’s a lot less smellier. At least the stuff disintegrates, not like the junk people have no qualms about dumping everywhere they go: trash in parks, preserves and beaches, all manner of unwanted household furnishings thrown guiltlessly into rivers, oceans, and roadsides, cups and food wrappers from the local Wendy’s or Taco Bell stuffed into a neighbor’s hedge or simply tossed out the window of a passing car on a highway.
In recent days (turning into weeks now) three of my five outdoor cats went missing in less than a week’s time. They rarely leave the yard except for perhaps the occassional visit to your backyard. They didn’t go for a walk to never come back. Some heartless (I won’t even call neighbor) thing living in close proximity decided to take them for a walk, either in the literal or not so literal sense. I don’t know who you are but I want you to know that I despise you. You’re not fit to walk the earth and share breathing space with the rest of humanity, you evil, decrepit, soul-less entity. Now that I’ve purged myself somewhat from weeks of uncontrollable crying maybe, just maybe, I can move ahead with grace, one of the traits I’ve adopted from my furry children. We’re survivalists. What in hell are you?

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For The Love Of Pets

November 29th, 2012 by Magdalena Tabor
Recently someone asked me how I was doing? Normally, I respond with the usual “okay” even when I’m not. This time I didn’t lie. I proceeded to tell him about the loss of my rabbit, to which he replied “That’s why I don’t have pets. I can’t go through that. It’s too hard“.
I thought about this after he’d gone. It’s true. However, the grieving, painful as it is, is still worth the years of pleasure our pets bring to us, even if it’s all too short. There’s just no measuring the amount of love exchanged. That love makes the pain bearable and I surrender myself to it as I have done many times before. I will continue to do so for as long as I am physically able to care for them.
You see, it’s the people who are the most sensitive, who think they can’t bear the loss of a beloved dog, cat, rabbit, or what have you, that are the best caregivers to our furry counterparts. It’s those we need, to provide a loving caring environment, because those are the people who will extend themselves immeasurably. We will suffer the consequences of loss as we so often do. Because we must.
To those of you who have sworn “never again” and broken your vow, I commend you. To those of you who opt to adopt from a shelter, rather than spend X amount of dollars to flaunt your pure bred, I applaud you. To those of you who rescue the stray and open up your home when it’s already filled to overflowing, I say “thank you”.
To my sensitive friends, believe me, I understand. I’m walking in a cloud of gloom right now but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because as soon as that cloud lifts, my spirit will mend. The cloud is only temporary but the shimmering silver linings are there and they are endless. The love experienced predominates all else. So then, break my heart. Make me your sainted martyr of pets.
Now, where’s that saucer of milk?
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Our Aging Pets

July 27th, 2012 by Magdalena Tabor
Isis, our Siamese cat, is 18 years old. I distinctly recall the day I brought her home. We claimed the entire back seat of the bus from New Jersey, she and I, bound for Port Authority Bus Terminal in NYC. She was actually meant for Michael; I was the designated guardian whose mission it was to drop her off at Michael’s apartment while he attended a Giants game at the Meadowlands. Because of this, I got to bond with her first. Frightened by her new and ever changing surroundings on our travels, I sought to comfort her. Scooping the tiny handful from her carrier, I held her to my chest. She purred, nestling up under my chin. I melted, giving myself up to her completely. And so we came to share a very special first connection. (She’s mine , Michael. Nah nah, nah-nah nah).
She thinks of me as mother, protector, (Snowshoe! Leave your sister alone!) friend, sister-feline, and not necessarily above all but oftentimes, waitress. (May I take your order, M’aam? No, I’m terribly sorry. We’re all out of trout. Might I interest you in today’s special: Chicken Florentine in Savory Sauce?) At one time possessing a voracious appetite yet managing to retain her sleek and slinky figure, Isis has grown increasingly discerning as the dawn descends on her aging profile. Ultimately thinner and fragile as a butterfly’s wing, I frantically reinvent creative ways to entice her to eat. (Isis! Look! It’s FANCY FEAST! WOW!) I even pretend to eat it myself as she watches in bland disinterest. The slightest consideration proven to tantalize her palate is served in double portions, in hopeful anticipation of a bowl licked empty to reveal the fishbone image at the bottom.
Isis has always been a complainer, whining at the tiniest inconvenience as though hapless victim to the  hardships of her posh lifestyle. Now, even more so. I attribute this to actual pain and discomfort in her aging, brittle boned composition, and rush her off to the vet. Various tests are run revealing a multitude of dysfunctions, some of which can be helped, the rest as insurmountable as the bill I’m handed when all is said and done. (Sixty dollars for taking a little blood out of her scrawny arm???) Charges for this. Charges for that. And there you have it….Three million, five hundred, forty two dollars and twenty nine cents. (Why can’t I include her on my medical benefits plan? She is my daughter. Well, no. I didn’t actually give birth to her. She’s adopted).
These days, I lavish extra love and attention on my tender friend. It’s as much a contributing factor to her slowly  increasing better health as the medication administered in her daily dosage. But facing facts and the harsh reality that will inevitably befall us, Isis will one day cease to walk the hallowed halls of home. Face it I must, with a sigh and a moan. It won’t be easy. In the meantime, there’s an oft repeated phrase in our household given Isis’s non relenting, audible demand for attention…. “What Isis wants, Isis gets!” For example: Open the closed door so that she might enter and reappear a moment later satisfied that there is nothing of interest on the other side of it after all. Repeat as often as necessary. Another example: Screams of bloody murder (from her) are soothed with gentle murmurings (by us) in attempt to calm whatever ailment afflicts her body, mind, or spirit. Sometimes this works, more often not. She’ll pace the house from room to room, a dispossessed being uncomfortable in her own skin. I turn a deaf ear, and she quiets. She can’t tell you what’s wrong, only that there’s something amiss. I know what it is. Old age digs in its heels. We either bear it or we don’t. There’s no third choice. But Isis is a survivor. Watching her prepares me for life’s final hurdle. To conquer it, is to go out fighting.
So…..whadawethink? How are you coping with your own aging pet? To what extremes do you go to comfort and provide?
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The Easter Lagomorph Is Coming

March 8th, 2012 by Michael Tabor
Michael and I love our two Lagomorphs. What??? Put simply, our rabbits. In the past, it was thought that the rabbit belonged to the rodent family  but this is untrue and they should not be referred to as such. This is insulting to them. Besides being utterly cute, they make wonderful pets and they’re smarter than you may think. Not quite as bright as Bugs Bunny – more along the lines of Peter Rabbit in McGregor’s garden.
Blossom has quite a personality and if you’re under the mistaken assumptiion that she’s just some dumb bunny, you’re in for a rude awakening, and I do mean “rude”. Never, and I repeat this emphatically with the emphasis on the first syllable, NEV-er be so careless as to place your hand into her domain without placing the other available hand on top of her head. She will invariably bite you. Hard. Her otherwise sweet temperment will be dominated by her territorial instincts, and you (even if you come bearing gifts) are considered to be the intruder. When the cleaning lady arrives (that’s me), it gets even trickier but I have mastered the situation over time. She has to be lured into the outer section of her home (this being the sunroom) while I deftly grab a large piece of slate (used for this sole purpose, readily available) and cover the opening to prevent her from entering her loft (complete with cathedral ceiling). This is accomplished with the use of food as enticement. It works every time. The other day, however, she managed to move the heavy slate aside, which is no small feat when you consider it weighs a good deal more than she does. This would have proven disastrous for the unsuspecting cleaning lady busy about her task, for were Blossom to make her way inside, a set of acutely sharp incisors would have made their presence known. If Blossom were ever featured in a Flintstones cartoon, she would have been utilized as Fred’s razor to shave with in the morning. She even has the audacity to charge at you in defense of her turf and actually emits a small grunt- like noise in the process, stopping just short of you in an effort to frighten. It’s rather effective knowing she will nip you. When this happens, I laugh it off by calling her “The Big, Bad, Bunny”. It’s really very funny because she’s so cute (provided you escape the wrath of her teeth). When we bring her to the vet to have her nails clipped, they think she’s sooooo adorable! They don’t know the real Blossom.
Then there’s our other Lagomorph. Godiva. Whereas Blossom is snowy white, Godiva is like dark chocolate, hence the name. She is docile. Serene. Sweet. Clean. The complete antithesis to “The Big, Bad, Bunny”. That’s it. Nothing more to be said about Godiva. In no way is she the lesser of the two. She’s just “good”. More of what you would expect in the typical bunny.
If you’re thinking of getting a rabbit for your kid at Easter, you may want to reconsider. Rabbits demand a lot of attention and can easily become sick if not properly cared for. They need a variety of fresh greens daily in addition to fresh bedding, hay for consumption, and papaya pills to aid in good digestion. All these things can prove costly but if you’re dedictaed to their good health and well being, go for it – they are a constant source of amusement. They will interact at play, with toys made especially for rabbits. Have you ever seen a rabbit wash its face? Too cute! Or seen one yawn? Hilarious!

If you decide to keep them indoors, be sure to cover all your wiring with plastic tubing or they will disconnect your cable service, or eliminate your source of electricity and quite possibly themselves in the process. But if you choose to house them outdoors as we do, you’ll need to provide a constant source of shade as shelter from the sun and the elements. Many a bunny has suffered heat exhaustion and died as a result of exposure. In winter, a clear plastic covering acts as a sort of greenhouse effect. You may however, need to shovel a path in heavy snow. This is not always convenient but they will thank you for it. Don’t expect an outcry of “Hooray! We’re saved!” but instead, a little dance of appreciation to make you smile.
Never serve them wilted greens and not all greens are suitable. Not long ago, I purchased an assortment of greens from the local supermarket. On this particular day, the kale was so fresh that when I placed it on the kitchen counter, a large, bright green grasshopper crawled out of it! Now that’s FRESH! Needless to say, I was quite freaked out by this display and had to contain my anxiety and act fast before he hopped off into the nether reaches of the kitchen’s recesses. He made a feeble attempt at a hop, having survived the trip from California, to the Pathmark on Long Island, into the plastic  stay-fresh bag, wheeled around for a tour in the cart, ferried down the conveyer belt to be rung up, placed into another plastic bag with a multitude of sundries, back into the cart for a bumpy ride across the parking lot and into the back of the Jeep before reaching our home as its final (?) destination. So, little wonder that by this time he might feel a bit woozy, much to my benefit. I hastily grabbed the plastic bag from which he had just been removed and gently covered him, scooped him up, and raced to the front door. Snow was in the night’s forecast but no matter. He would find quick refuge under one of the many cedar bushes outside. Now, as anyone who knows me can verify, I am not, not, not, a bug person but as Michael often quotes, “All life is precious”. This being said and my duty done, I found it safe at this point to promptly freak  with an audible  “Eeeeeeeee!” shrieked several times in succession while shuddering and stomping my feet at the horrific ordeal I’d just encountered. I hate to think of what would have happened had I put the kale into the refrigerator along with “Grasshopper”. Might he have eaten all of the meat loaf? Or jumped out at Michael during one of his late night binges? I can picture him waking me up to tell me about it, and me saying “Go back to bed, It was only a nightmare”. Oh yeah??? Then where’s all the meat loaf?

In short, if you are prepared to deal with all this for the sake of a cute little, button-nosed bunny, then you are ndeed the perfect candidate for just such a pet. Make the leap only by making the commitment. Otherwise, stick with the chocolate version. Might I suggest Godiva?
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