A Post

[Behind the scenes of this blog posting: I spent a great deal of time wavering back and forth on potential topics. I even began writing a posting, which quickly turned so melancholy that I deleted the entire thing. At that point, I was sorely tempted to ditch the project and crawl into bed with my copy of "Through The Looking Glass." No - I reminded myself. Your intent is to do a bit of writing everyday. It doesn't have to conform to any standards or notions of what it "should be." I resigned myself to trying again, but - alas - my creative juices are shriveled. This could easily diverge - at this point - into a posting about WHY the juices are dried up (clue: because of work, the severe intellectual fatigue that it induces, and the copious amounts of my time that it has been consuming) but that's not what I want to discuss either. So here's what I'll do: Bore you with random details about today. Aren't you glad I've set this new personal goal?]


Tonight I bought bunny hay. Two five-gallon tubs of it, for which I paid an entire $8.00. (Courtesy of the House Rabbit Society) Earlier this week, in a moment of desperation (the hay connection has been out of town), I paid over $10.oo for a measly bag of dried-out, unflavorful hay at the pet store.

It was clearly not up to the standards of the rabbits-in-residence, and much time and effort was put into demonstrating that fact to me. Elaborate sniffing sessions took place, during which the rabbits would initially rush toward the hay, as if they had been waiting for hay all of their lives, then stop short at the edge of the mound. Bodies leaning back, they would stretch what little neck they have forward and sniff - testily - at the dried grasses. Tossing their heads, they would - each of them - run back toward me as if expecting the "REAL" hay to be produced. This would go on for some time, and - each time - when "good hay" did not appear the rabbits would spend the next half hour scattering hay around their enclosures.

This ritual has been happening - without fail - twice a day for five days. I am glad to be done with it.

Now, as I type, a happy, sprawled-out Charlie lies underneath the table, close to my feet. Janie tugs at my pants leg, suggesting that I pay a bit more attention to her. When I finish typing this, I will do a bit of work - but not as much as some nights.

I bet you that - despite the warning delivered in the preamble to this posting - you still expected there to be a point, didn't you? There isn't.