Bert

Last week, at the venerable age of nearly nine, our house rabbit Bert passed away as we fussed him.

Not a bad way to go really, when you think about it. Warm, dry, having your ears stroked, with fresh hay, vegetables and bunny treats within easy reach. I wouldn't mind ending my own days like that. He was a good age and, although cataracts and a spot of arthritis had taken their toll, he was still relatively sprightly, meandering round the garden hunting grapes and the occasional dandelion:

We'd known he was on his way out for most of the day and so were a little way prepared for the inevitable, but feeling his tiny body come to a stop with a small tremor and a bit of a stretch was quite the emotional wrench.

If you're not one of the privileged few fortunate enough to have had a house rabbit as a tenant, then you might think I'm being daft, but there you go. Emotions happened. Occasional tears were shed.

But then we've had him through some tough times over the last eight and a half years so perhaps not that surprising after all. He's been a fluffy constant at home through some of the highest peaks we've had, as well as being there through dark times, through those minor tragedies inherent to all of of us during our lives unless we're very, very lucky. Small wonder we will cling to whatever tiny rock, whatever small solace we can. Bert was, I now recall, a living, breathing source of succour and comfort.

Or at the very least a sock-shagging distraction.

Try being depressed with a randy bunny clinging to your Totes Toasties.

When I hear someone is thinking of getting a bunny type critter, I now implore them into making it a  house rabbit. That way, instead of a savage isolated bitey thing in an oft-neglected pen in the garden, they get a socialised, confident, very entertaining companion running circles around you whilst making soft honking sounds, leaping on to the walls and pushing off like a chinchilla in The Martrix, running up and down stairs ten times in a row for no other reason than it seems like the thing to do, or nudging your feet with his nose until you agree to fuss him for forty solid minutes whilst watching the telly.

His official title once our children came along was Officer In Charge Of Animal Appreciation, a duty he carried out with aplomb, supplying many hours of stoic fortitude as our children fussed him the wrong way, tried to pick him up, stuffed his ears into their mouths or pushed him along the floor like a living brush. Never biting, the most he would do when the attention got a little too much was hop off, occasionally showing his displeasure with a loud foot thump.

Bert's final duty was, as with many pets, to be an introduction to death. My five year old son became more aware of the ephemerality of life, that nothing lasts forever and even about the practicalities of being dead. We held a little burial ceremony, gave Bert some of his favourite treats in case there's a bunny Valhalla, wrote his name on the box, said thank you for being such a wonderful pet before burying him next to the lawn he'd frequented on sunny days for most of his life.

Demonstrating his newly acquired grasp of solemnity and respect for dead loved ones, my son turned to me and, in hushed tones, said "Daddy, I've just done a massive farp."

It comes to us all, son. It comes to us all.

And so a week after Bert left us I wanted to look at some photos of him, including the one above which is the last I took. Not to mourn him particularly because he was, at the end of the day, an old rabbit, but maybe as a little reminder that, for most of his time with us he was a bounding, leaping dervish who really did seem to enjoy being alive, to go wherever he pleased, and who fully considered our bed his own:

Sorry, no room for you on here. My stuff's on it.

A friend of mine quoted (perhaps inevitably) from Watership Down, suggesting Bert had been called by Frith and gone to dance with the black rabbit, which was poetry and sympathy in one fell swoop (thanks Jon). In the book, the black rabbit is an allegory for death as the rabbit's constant companion, and I like to think we protected Bert from that. I also feel he was a bit of an agnostic and so prefer the idea of him enjoying frith in the original sense of the word, where it means peacefulness and freedom from molestation.

He won't have his ears tugged by the children again, or have his apple stolen off him by a human toddler, or have his wood shavings piled up on top of him to "keep him warm". He won't be chased around the garden with a toy watering can, won't have a hat put on him and won't be taken to school for Show Your Pet Off day. I'll always admire his fortitude in staying serene in the face of children.

Of course, as a grown up medical professional, I felt that one should let a rabbit BE a rabbit, and would never stoop to such games solely for my entertainment.

Well, almost never.

Good night Bert.

Street walker 2 - The Continuing!

As I cross over the canal, I like to imagine it in it's hey day when, during the 1700s, it was a vital artery for the local wool industry, before becoming a popular tourist destination for narrow boats intent on exploring the Cotswold's. In the 1960s, the M5 motorway was built and cut it off, so now it lies like a very long, very thin lake, which has it's own attractions.

Now, it has grown lush with vegetation, sometimes leaving just a stream-like trickle between the encroaching banks, and this in turn attracts wildlife. In one short stretch, right under the road bridge, I see a family of swans, moorhens, coots, three species of ducks, screaming gulls, rats, yappy terriers and old ladies trying to brain them all with week-old bread.

It's like a David Attenborough production.

Of course, the growing vegetation, pleasing to the eye as it may be, has recently had an adverse effect on the living conditions of nearby residents. Instead of acting as a drain for excess water, as canals often do, it now acts as a river, swelling with the rains. Last year, for the first time in my estate's history, it finally overflowed and flooded out a lot of the houses round here.





I caught a baby perch by hand at the crossroads!

I recall this because, continuing my thoughts about community spirit, we were all up till about one in the morning bailing out the bungalows which got hit hardest, and walking elderly folk to their relatives cars so they could be taken away and dried out.



It was heart-warming, in a damp, inconvenient, and insurance heavy sort of way.

A few weeks later, the choking weeds were trimmed back following public outcry (a stern letter to the council from Les), and the canal has been retamed a little since.

I have to get to the Pet Shop for the bunny equivalent of crack, if I am to rest easy at night knowing our house rabbit won't jack my car and sell it for his habit, so I continue on.

The GPs surgery is busy, as per usual. Folk demanding antibiotics for their viruses and complaining that the doctors haven't cured their colds yet. I am rather taken with the sign on the front door which says, caringly, "If you have, or suspect that you have swine flu, please go home."

Onward past the very well established and rather expensive private school, which caters for teenagers from rich families across the globe, but particularly lots of boarding Japanese for some mysterious oriental reason. They huddle together as they walk, staring at the low rise buildings, grey skies and gaps of more than two metres between pedestrians, obviously wondering what sort of strange place their caring, rich, doting, rich and above all rich parents have banished sent them to.

The locals mutter as approaching herds of Nipponese fail to make way on the pavement for old, frail or pregnant people, not realising that they will, but only when the gap is much closer than the socially acceptable norms a small UK town expects. The Japanese seem to have a much smaller personal space than the average English person, which isn't surprising because anyone within the rough striking distance of a thrown cricket ball is considered getting a bit too cuddly for the average pasty gaijin round these parts.

As I'm on my own, I consider popping in to The Woolpack for a cheeky pint. Putting the word "cheeky" in front of it makes it sound like a positively good thing to be doing, like a little treat, and definitely not like drinking alone at lunchtime.

The thought depresses me, so I carry on. I'll be sensible and have a coffee with some brandy in it when I get home.

The uniquely named High Street is unusual in that it has a lot of shops which are owned by local people, including the hardware shop, the fruity seller, the chippy, the pizzeria, a couple of cafes and the butchers.

I like the butchers. It could be used as a template for butchers shops everywhere. Big, open window garnished with pieces of animals, all stainless steel surfaces inside, and the iron tang of blood as you pass. There are a couple of butchers inside. One is your classic ruddy-cheeked knife maestro, all thick forearms and barrel chest, a man who could probably reduce a cow to a neatly stacked pile of bones in the time a flock of pirhanas takes to sharpen their claws.

I totally do know what a pirhana is, actually.

The other butcher is not as butch as the butch butcher. I'm not sure why, and I don't want to be campist, but you don't expect butchers to be camp. Sort of the equivalent of having a hairdresser doing an elaborate bouffant whilst wearing oil-stained overalls. Just out of place.

Anyway, what he lacks up for in terms of classical butchering poise, he more than makes up for in his enthusiasm for double entendres.

Really bad double entendres, where he over enunciates the word with the sexual connotations, in case his bemused audience misses it, and accompanies each utterance with a strange, painful looking head wrench which may, just may, be some sort of friendly wink.

Examples include, after an old lady has asked for a small number of sausages for her tea; "What's that love, you want some of my SAUSAGE Eh?" Headwrenchheadwrenchheadwrench.

Or when someone orders some beef; "Eh? Good choice love. I've got the best MEAT in town!" Headwrenchheadwrenchheadwrench.

Or when someone buys absolutely anything else from the shop; "Would you like me to put my PENIS in your VAGINA, eh love? Eh? EH?" Headwrenchheadwrenchheadwrench.

I pass my favourite cafe. The owners opened it 6 years previously and continually produce great food from a tiny kitchen, from cupcakes to entire roast dinners. It has a loyal customer base and never fails to please.

As I pass, the owner, Heather, is evicting someone. No mean feat as she is small, delicate and almost pathologically averse to confrontation. The evictee is Cider Ron, and he is being kicked out because he's very . . . well, cidery.

There is a strong smell of booze, stale urine, and body odour which accompany a vast array of stains on what once might have been an expensive blazer, bought twenty years ago by a thinner man with some money and style.

He starts swearing and shouting about what he perceives as an injustice, not recalling his abysmal behaviour just a couple of days ago when Heather had to call the police to have him removed. At least we presume he's swearing, but it's all in fast german, so it's hard to tell. Wisely, Heather simply tells him she's not arguing and retreats, flushed but victorious, back behind the pretty bay windows of the cafe.

Tragically, Cider Ron used to be a linguistics expert, with a good job and associated income, until he discovered alcohol and learned that his favourite language of all was "Blaargh! Sharrap! Oof!"

A moment later, Ron has forgotten why he's standing there, remembers he's hungry and begins to walk back towards the cafe. He's turned around at the door by an exiting* customer who points him in the direction of the chippy, who will no doubt be grateful for the custom.

I eventually make it to the pet shop. Another locally owned premises, it is staffed by an amazingly knowledgeable and caring bunch of ladies who I would consult on matters of small animal husbandry before most qualified vets. They know us well, having sold us our rabbit in the first place and boarding him when we go on holiday, so I'm usually in there for a good twenty minutes, even for just the smallest item.

They let me play with some of the domesticated rats they have in stock, and I once again wonder what the wife would think if I came home with a couple of dozen. The forecast would be for ructions, a rapidly descending cold-front and withheld affections.

Sensibly, I decide that a junkie bunny is enough for the moment, and purchase two bags of rabbit treats before saying goodbye.

The door bell chimes behind me as I leave to go home. It's a short distance, but a journey nonetheless.




*That's 'exiting', not 'exciting'. Alhtough how cool would it be if an exciting customer came out of the cafe? Possibly with a jet pack and a pet bear. Oh yeah . . .

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit . . .

I thought I'd show you who I share a house with. This is Bert:

Those of you educated in the finer points of the animal kingdom might recognise him as a rabbit. In fact, he's a House Rabbit, and by House I don't mean that he's a fictional medical genius with a limp and sociopathic god-complex who looks just like Prince George off of Blackadder the Third, but that he lives in the house. With us. He's got a cage that he sleeps and poos in, and a robot lady rabbit that he . . . er . . . enjoys, for want of a better euphemism.

Now, when I was a nipper, rabbits were things that were kept in a hutch in the garden, to be mucked out by your parents after you'd promised to do it, but before you realised that this would take effort and a modicum of responsibility on your part, so you meandered off to make a ramp to jump over on your Raliegh Grifter. These rabbits were famous for two things; first for not being seen for weeks on end and, second, when they were levered out of their hutch and forced into the cloying arms of a pre-pubescent hug, for having a bite that would make Mike Tyson knuckle away a tear in envy. How many children at school bore the scars (both physical and emotional) of being unexpectedly savaged by Thumper? Of course, the reason these poor buggers were so vicious was due to insanity brought on by loneliness, a fact which has been brought home to me now when I see just how friendly Bert is.

What I like is, when you come in from work after a long shift, he circles round and round your feet, honking gently and establishing utter, utter ownership of you, or at least your socks, Which he also enjoys. It's very welcoming, especially if there's no-one else at home. He took 2 days to housetrain, and in general doesn't chew cables although we do have to watch him with the skirting boards and bottoms of sofas. He's very curious, which is hilarious if you've got a bag or box to put down. After cleaning his cage, it's not unusual to have to remove a demented bunny from the hay bag:

Of course, he's spoilt rotten. This is evident in the following photogram, where he can be seen choffing that staple of lagomorphic dietary requirements, a box of chocolates. Presumably he likes the carrot centres:


Obviously, it was the wife's idea to get a rabbit, as it usually is in these situations, because let's be honest, how many men are going to wake up one morning and think "I want a pet rabbit!". But they do grow on you, and you begin to get mildly insulted by the suggestions of edibleness which invariably come from all your friends. And he now has his useful side too, having been appointed Officer in Charge of Animal Appreciation to our infant son, who is fast becoming gentle, tolerant and understanding of the other creatures that inhabit our world.

I've heard it said that House Rabbits are the pets of the future, and I agree. Perfect for those who want a companion but don't have time for a dog, a flap for a cat or space for a rhino.

So may I issue a plea to all rabbit owners everywhere, especially to those who might not have seen theirs for a few days - go and give 'em a fuss.