A Life in Clover

Standards are slipping. I am reduced to beguiling you today with a bunny in clover, one of possibly the third or fourth generation offspring of the original baby rabbit who appeared on our patio as if from nowhere 18 months ago. After a year on its own, somehow it procured a partner and the rest is history.

We now have bunnies hopping about all over the place. They appear to live under the decking of a new build flat next door to us. It will be interesting to see how many they can fit in there before there is so much overcrowding they are forced to find alternative accommodation.

We can afford to like them since we don't grow anything that they can eat, but I can imagine many of you would be glad to have one or two for the pot.
I remember my Granny skinning them to make a rabbit stew, and I also remember my friends and I would ask the butcher to give us the tails to play with until the smell got too bad.
These were the cave men days before things were sanitised and polythene wrapped on supermarket shelves. There is nothing like carcasses of dead animals hanging from hooks dripping blood onto sawdust to concentrate the minds of children as to where their dinner comes from.

How on earth did I manage to get to blood streaked sawdust from a baby bunny in clover?