When it comes to hay, Kenzie and I are voracious eaters. We prefer western timothy, specially ordered from Oxbow. Granny buys it for us in 50 pound boxes, so we'll never be caught short.
Recently Mom decided that we were "wasting" too much. "It's bad manners to play with your food," she groused. "Bunnies in India would give their right paws for the hay you take for granted." So Granny made us each our very own hay basket. The idea was that Mom would fill them daily, with our allotted portion, and everything would stay neat and tidy.
You know what they say about best laid plans, don't you? Every morning Mom delicately tucks our hanks of hay into our baskets and sits back and admires her handiwork, then goes on about her day. And every evening she comes home to find hay scattered from one end of the pen to the other, with a goodly portion strewn across the bedroom floor and out into the hall. It never fails to send her into a tizzy.
"HOW can you make such a mess day after day?" she moans, and holds her head. The vacuum is no match for our hay-hurling prowess. Mom has to pick the hay up by hand, piece by individual piece. "A GOOD bunny would feel guilty," she says, but we know better. We are just doing what bunnies were born to do--wreak havoc on a grand scale. Besides, she's always saying she needs more exercise. What better way to get it than cleaning up after us? She really ought to THANK us.
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