There’s nothing common about our rabbits

Jul 31 2007 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

DAY ends the same way every time in the yawning town.

The pillows are soft and plump, virgin-white and reassuring, and the sheet is chin-high on the bed.

The child offers prayers to the darkening sky, where God is waiting to bless those on the list of names – mummy and daddy, brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunties and uncles, cousins, family friends and pets.

Some are still knotting their shoe-laces and watching the rain fall on Lottery tickets down here on earth. Others are dead.

It’s a diplomatic nightmare for God, who has to soothe the ruffled sensibilities of his guests not satisfied with their billing.

It’s worse than Hollywood up there.

Aunty Edith, for example, is having a tantrum about the prayers floating up from Tommy, in Crocus Avenue. She can just about accept Gordon the goldfish nipping in ahead of her – but Vernon the toad! Vernon the toad!

In a smoky corner of the sky, my mother is gossiping in the café with old chums, her Scottish vowels still polished with the gentle deference of a piano in the Manse.

“You know, my dears, that wee girl in blue is showing a lot of cleavage for an angel, plucking her harp in a rather bold manner, too.

“Wouldn’t you have thought that someone with all her advantages in life would know what to show and what to suggest? But you can never tell these days. Look at that wiggle.”

The blue-rinsed lady with the generous bosoms, whose husband was big in insurance and a bit of a lad with the gals on weekend seminars, considers the point as she draws like a hawk on a cigarette, leaving lipstick stains on the filter-tip.

“Yes, some of them can be too flighty for their own good,” she says. “Just the same as down there.”

Suddenly, my mother’s chin puckers with concentration and her ears sharpen. Prayers are being said by her 11-year-old grandson.

“God bless . . .” he begins.

“Where will I be tonight?” she whispers to herself. “What! Behind Milly and Molly, the rabbits.

“That’s a bit of a come down in the world.”

Well, mum, we thought Milly was going to join you last week, so we had to raise her billing.

You may remember Milly and Molly arriving at our house some months ago.

We were concerned from the start that Milly appeared to be nibbling her grass on the other side of the radish patch – stomping around the back garden in stout brogues, Donegal tweed breeches, a hacking-jacket and deer-stalker hat, while periodically supping from a pint pot and slapping her thighs.

Other signs, particularly in her behaviour with Molly, also indicated that she was a follower of Gertrude Stein, but we won’t go into those now.

Anyway, one morning my wife was cleaning the hutch when she noticed that Milly had made a perfect nest, furnished with hay, balls of newspaper and tufts of her own fur.

“Quite common,” said the vet on the other end of the phone.

“Quite common!” I replied. “There’s nothing common about our rabbits.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said the weary vet. “She’s having a phantom pregnancy.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “Do you think so? We never thought she was that way inclined. On the contrary she seemed to be the man in the relationship, if you’re following my meaning – don’t you know, how’s your father?”

The vet suggested that both Milly and Molly should have a little operation.

Female rabbits who don’t have babies can develop serious physical and psychological problems unless they are neutered, he said. So the deed was done.

They returned home still groggy from the anaesthetic.

Molly quickly recovered, but Milly was pining and not eating.

We kept them in the conservatory for extra warmth and my wife slept by Milly through the first night, nursing her in a blanket. At first light, she detected a little improvement. The worst was over. Milly nibbled at her food and attempted a scamper.

After 10 days, both had made a full recovery and their stitches were taken out.

Now they are back in the garden, leaping hither and thither, burrowing in the lawn and generally demonstrating a love of life.

Milly, however, has not found the need to reach again for her tweed breeches.

Our son attempts to catch them when it is time for bed and they parade all their old feints and darts, leaving him panting in their wake.

“Come to me for a cuddly-wuddly,” he says.

It is, you will have gathered, the addition of the “wuddly” which is decisive on these occasions. For the moment, of course, they deserve star billing in our prayers.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk