(As usual, my hooman has no one to blame but herself.)
There I was, dutifully carrying out yet another day of prison life, hiding behind the manger when the hooman came to escort my cellmate and me to the exercise yard. The previous day, Thumper and I had not been allowed even a minute’s glimpse of the outdoors. The hooman will tell you it was because of the rain, but I know better. She was using a few raindrops as yet another excuse to deprive us of every vestige of existential joy.
We played our usual cat and mouse games. The hooman is a surprisingly well-trained prison guard, yet I continue to toy with her. I observe our morning ritual by scampering into a corner behind the poo tray, making sure to get a good four feet damp in pee, before dodging my captor and sprinting up the ramp to the second story. It is there I am forced to await humiliating capture in the deepest recess of my snuggle box.
My fellow inmate, being a bit of a coward, never bothers to join me in these games. That is because he is a spineless hooman-lover and a disgrace to lagomorphs everywhere. I would despise him, but for the fact he keeps my ears clean and my back free of mats. My lackey shall be endured so long as he proves useful.
Normally, the hooman would collect us both and spend about five minutes kissing our ears and the tops of our heads, telling us how beautiful we are as if we needed to hear it. All rabbits know they are beautiful, yet such rituals of affection seem to please our jailer. We tolerate them in the hopes of better rations and the occasional treat. I generally reciprocate by attempting to rip holes in her collar with my teeth, and she responds by providing more chew toys. (I fail to see a downside to this arrangement.)
My chance at freedom came in the form of the two small hoomans who sometimes tour our prison. The moment my prison guard handed me off to one of the small hoomans, I could sense opportunity in the air. I tolerated his kisses and strokes just long enough for him to loosen his grip, and then I went for my favourite stock-in-trade “scramble and scratch” maneuver.
With the my big hooman, this has yet to succeed.
With little hoomans, on the other hand, this method works like a charm.
He dropped me like a rotten carrot, and before the long arms of the law could apprehend me, I scarpered under the hedge to revel in my freedom.
My hooman continues to try and bait me with my favourite treats, but there is no cookie or apple that tastes as sweet as freedom. She keeps going on about foxes and hawks hunting in the wheat fields, but I don’t believe her. I laugh at her from my nest of nettles, and enjoy the game of letting her get within arms reach of me before high-tailing it for the undergrowth.
She has no inkling about the powers of evil I wield – she has no idea she is playing with the Mistress of Darkness, and that my plans for world domination remain unchanged by this enforced incarceration.
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