What's Up Doc?

Can anyone guess what Mrs Wife and I brought home with us last weekend?

Bearing in mind that we were at a music festival, the obvious answers are:

a) Two tonnes of genuine Inveraray Castle mud

b) Stinking hangovers

c) A car boot full of food that we took with us and never got around to eating

d) An unusual disease unseen in Western Europe since World War I.

In truth, we may have returned from deepest, darkest Argyll with the first three (maybe the fourth as well - you never can tell), but the most important thing to arrive back in the comparative metropolis of Montrose with Mr and Mrs GJ was....

....wait for it, it's good....

....a rabbit.

Yes, a genuine, living, breathing, shitting, rabbit.

Mrs Wife decided long ago that our lives weren't complete without something small and furry to clean up after. And, following a recent trip to an Aberdeen pet emporium, set her heart on a rabbit - a house rabbit no less. (How one trains a rabbit to do its business in a litter tray is anyone's guess, and Mrs Wife's problem.)

I've never had a proper pet before. Back when I was a wee laddie, Faither was a gamekeeper, and always had at least three dogs to assist in various hunting activities. But as they were working dogs, and therefore employees, they had to live in staff quarters, namely kennels outside. This was probably best for practical reasons - have you ever tried to eat your dinner when watched by two labradors, two spaniels, a Jack Russell and two border terriers? And also because working dogs stink.

Anyway, I digress. Dungroanin's smallest bedroom has a new lodger, going by the name of Pepper. Her name was going to be something else entirely during the two days when Mrs Wife thought she was a boy (the rabbit that is, not Mrs Wife), but a quick trip to the vet ascertained that Pepper is and always will be a girl.

The first few days living with this black bundle of fur have been entertaining, for want of a better word. To begin with, she was terrified of us, hiding permanently in the bed box at the back of her cage. But, left to her own devices to explore Dungroanin', she's gradually coming out of her shell. She's still at the stage where she'll bolt if she suspects that someone wants to touch her, hold her, pick her up or prise her gums open in an effort to stick a syringe in her mouth to facilitate the administration of antibiotics (I think I'm probably with her on that point).

So hopefully, as she settles into the laidback lifestyle at Dungroanin', she'll start to earn her keep by doing useful little tasks around the house, like fetching beer from the kitchen.

And if not, she'll make a lovely stew.

(If you're reading this Mrs Wife - THAT WAS A JOKE!)