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One of my best buddies in the world is a rabbit. Jojo Peanut to be precise. And, like me, it's his birthday around this time of the year. Unlike me, he's only three.
When we got Jojo in the winter of 2010, my husband and I had both recently been retrenched from our jobs. Luckily our finances were bouyed by a reasonable tax return that year, which helped see us through until we got back on our feet again. We had a tiny bit of money left over. Enough for a hutch, some toys, and a heap of straw and food.
And that's how we ended up driving home with a tiny baby rabbit in a cardboard box. Neither of us had owned a pet rabbit before. I'd never even held one. We had no idea what to name him. I mentioned that the shade of brown marking his fur was the same colour as peanut butter. But somehow peanut just wasn't right all on it's own. We tossed around names for a while; the only one that ever seemed to spark a response from the baby bun was Jojo.
He was tiny. His binkies were adorable as he slipped and slid on our crappy linoleum floor. He seemed to have the bladder of an elephant and the ability to know exactly when was the worst time to pee. Gradually, with a little coaxing, he learned to use his litter trays. He would get up on our bed and be too afraid to jump down. He snuggled between us on the couch, and he snored, and sometimes he squeaked.
Jojo, happy birthday buddy. You're one of the lights of my life.
Lapin
