Rubí writes her Tuesday blog:
We had a nice long quiet weekend without the rabit person. He went off for a few days in Wales, which Morris tells me is a wet and miserable country with dragons. Really? I can’t think why anyone in their right mind would want to go there (and that confirms my suspicions about the rabit person). Moving swiftly on…
Carl and Cait and her parents Tom and Jenny came to look after us. It is always good to have different people to look at through the fence and it was a clever idea to build a pergola for them to sit in, so we get a better view of them. As I frequently say to Matilde, the field is an ideal place to get an all round view of people under the pergola.
The rabit person left ready-mixed sacks of morning and evening feed to be delivered to us by our weekend carers, but he has changed the menu: no grain or alfalfa in the evening, as we are supposedly getting too fat. (Rage, stamp, snort, flounce…)
Before flying off to the dismal country of drizzle and dragons, the rabit person spent quite a lot of time recently sitting in a corner of the field putting paint on a stretched piece of cloth over a wooden frame. Morris tells me it is called a painting. I asked, “Why go to all that trouble when you could just take a photograph?”
Morris replied, “Because it’s obviously more exciting: the rabit person doesn’t do all that swearing and frowning when he takes a photograph.”
Matilde and Aitana are obviously the stars of the painting, being made big and serious; but looking at the representation of me and Morris in the distance – the size of mice – we are obviously unimportanter. And look what shape I have been painted.
“Morris,” I said. “I really don’t know what the rabit person was thinking of. Does my bum look big in this?”
But Morris had already wandered off. He and Aitana had started another of their kicking matches. She stands alongside him for a few minutes, slightly behind him, and he kicks her. Then they change places and she kicks him. It’s called romance.