Those who know me well know my propensity for rescuing animals. This is not necessarily a good thing. Occasionally I have found myself overwhelmed and have ended up being a halfway house for the animal in question, finding them a much more loving home after I realize that we have taken on too much, or not thought things through clearly enough.
Devastatingly, the gorgeous Chester the Molester has had to become one of those casualties. He is the sweetest, most adorable, most kitten-like rabbit there has ever been, but I rescued him without realizing that he and Stan would likely hate each other. I have now spent months attempting to gradually introduce them, hoping that they would eventually grow used to one another, but it was not to be. Stan absolutely hated him, and would try and attack him whenever he could (and this is despite them both being neutered).
Stan is something of a grouch. He is not very cuddly, and sometimes hops over and bites your feet for no explicable reason. But he also makes us laugh, and has an enormous amount of personality. He was also here first. Even though I really really wanted to figure out a way to keep Chester the Molester, Stan is clearly the heir to the throne, and so Chester the Molester has gone to a lovely woman with three gorgeous daughters, all of whom are spoiling Chester rotten, and giving him all the attention and love he deserves. And there are no enormous black bunny rabbits with very long teeth who are constantly lurking and trying to bite him through the bars.
Last week the daughter sent me a video of her cuddling a divine little puppy. She was at a friend’s house and he had nine of these puppies that were looking for a home. What kind of dogs were they, I asked, feeling the old familiar urge begin to wash over me, knowing my husband would have to make a strong intervention because a new puppy is the very last thing we can handle right about now.
They were a cross between a Pug and a Yorkshire Terrier. A pug and a Yorkie, thought I? What on earth do they call that? A Porkie? Because every mutt these days seem to have a designer name. And even though I do not want another dog, the prospect of having a dog called a porkie was enormously appealing. Given that I have occasionally been known to finish off entire boxes of Quality Street by myself, I thought it would be fitting.
The daughter came home that night telling me I was mistaken. The puppies are not known as Porkies, apparently, but as Pugshire Terriers. Happily, the urge passed, because it’s not as if one husband, six children, two dogs, five cats, six chickens, one rabbit, and one fish isn’t enough for any harried writer.
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