All those Easter cakes last week reminded me of something:
See, when John and I were young and idealistic, we briefly had a pet angora rabbit named George.
He looked almost, but not entirely, exactly unlike this.
Like most rabbits, George had the intelligence of a box of sand, but there were some people - let's call them "liars" - who assured us that rabbits could be litter box trained.
Now, maybe it's semantics, but unless "litter box trained" means "nonstop pooping while hopping," then we never quite reached that point with George.
And during the few moments when George stopped pooping, we knew with certainty and dread that he was probably peeing:
On the plus side, George was an idiot, so he never took it to heart when we ran after his adorable little hopping, pooping, peeing self screaming obscenities.
[poop] "What?" [poop]
It wasn't long before we found another sucker loving home to take George, who bid us adieu with a blank-eyed leg kick and a final handful of poo pellets.
I like to think George and his new owner found every happiness together, and that he never drove the sweet little lady to bunny-cide by carrot:
Probably best not to ask what she did with the rest of his face.
Thanks to Ashby, Tiffany K., Kimberly L., Sadeye M., & Stefanie G. for the crappy hop down memory lane.