As adorable as this is, why would even need to bathe a rabbit?
we had to bathe ours when he got old because he wouldn’t clean himself :(
Yep, they can get poops stuck to their butts.
(Source: cantspellbasswithoutass, via adorabelledearheart)
GPOYW
i’ve been noticing a trend on facebook and since i care alot about rabbits i had to write something about it. easter is no treat for pet bunnies. the same time, every year, thousands of bunnies are impulse purchased to be given as gifts, often to children, during easter. but once the novelty factor wears off they are dumped at animal shelters, where bunnies are the third most abandoned pet. or when their owners discover the reality of the responsibility required to take care of a rabbit, they end up neglected in their own homes without the proper attention they need. bunnies require the same care and attention as any other pet and adopting a bunny means a life long commitment. if you can’t take that responsibility make it a CHOCOLATE bunny this easter, real bunnies are not TOYS.
WELL SAID. As a child I got a baby bunny around Easter, but luckily I had parents sensible enough to take care of him when their layabout good-for-nothing daughters were too lazy. I would love to have another bunny all my own, but an apartment in the city is no place for a rabbit. When I decide to get one, the first place I’ll look will surely be an animal shelter.
And also a proud Dad of 4 baby bunnies (who arent so small anymore)
Its also their Birthdays! SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUNNIES :) <3
Is there anything this Bunny can’t do !!!
I always have and always will LOVE BUNNIES. Growing up I had three. Ice Pick - who was actually my dad’s, hence the weird name - was an English lop and had long floppy brown ears. I only vaguely remember him because he died when I was still a toddler.
Buttercup was an albino and named after the bunny in this book. He only lived a few years and died when I was 6 or so.
Fudgie we got when I was 8. It was around Easter, I think. My parents had taken my sister and me out for ice cream or some such after dinner, and then to the pet store, which was a treat in itself as my folks generally avoided bringing us places that tempted us into begging for things. Seriously, I don’t think I was ever in Toys ‘R’ Us once my entire childhood.
Anyway, so my sister, who’s 4 at the time, and I are in this pet store looking at the litter of baby bunnies in this little corral, and someone asks us which bunny we like best, and we pick out the biggest of the babies. I hear my dad say “We’ll take that one,” to the clerk, and I remember not quite believing what I’d heard. I thought in just a moment my folks were going to shout “JUST KIDDING! Get in the car,” and the wonderful pet store experience would end. But they weren’t joking, and we took him home and named him Fudgie that evening because he had black and brown fur and we all liked chocolate. He was a Dwarf Netherland and about the size of a baseball.
My dad had built a sizable hutch we kept on the back patio, and that was where Fudgie lived. It had a large space surrounded by wire mesh, and a smaller enclosed space with straw into which Fudgie would burrow. When the weather was nice we’d let him out of the hutch, and for the most part he was content to stay in the yard. During the hottest months of summer he’d just lay in the cool dirt among the hostas immediately next to the house. He knew when it was time to go back in his hutch though, because then he would run to a number of… well, not really hiding places, but definitely places we couldn’t grab him - between the trellis and the house, behind the air conditioner or the woodpile.
One time during the holidays I tried to put a little sleigh bell around his neck because I thought it would be cute. He went ballistic and I frantically removed the bell as quickly as I could, which wasn’t easy considering that he was flipping the fuck out inside his hutch. Poor guy.
During the first half of his life he frequently humped a plastic wiffle ball we’d put in his hutch. We’d just intended him to sort of nudge it around and play with it, which he did, usually, before embarking on a few seconds of lightning-speed humps. I’m sure he must have felt sexually frustrated, because he also once chased a wild rabbit across three neighbors’ yards.
Overall he was a very calm and friendly rabbit. If you held him and patted him gently for awhile, eventually he’d let you flip him on his back in your lap, then he would lean his head back and let his paws float up in the air as though he were playing dead.
A year or so before he died, we think he may have had a small stroke. One of his ears, which had always pertly stood up from his head, suddenly was always flopped down. He continued to eat and hop around, if slowly, though his ministrations to the wiffle ball had long since ended.
He died shortly before I came home from college for Thanksgiving break my freshman year. He had lived ten years … that’s 75 in rabbit years. My dad buried him in the woods behind our house near the graves of our other bunnies, all of them marked with a stone.
