Some of you may know that Skipper, the youngest and smallest of the Lockett Clan, was crook a couple of weeks ago.
Sure, his vet appointment and medication cost more than he did (with de-sexing, a hutch, water bottle and a weeks' worth of pellets thrown in!) two years ago, but a week after my final grapple with holding him still, forcing his reluctant mouth open and squirting in some liquid antibiotics, he seemed to be on the mend.
Which meant .......
..... Bunny Bath Time!
Normally, he's self-cleaning, but the accumulated dark brown crud on his back legs of ancient dried blood and urine were obviously a mix he wasn't prepared to lick off during his leisure time. Plus the vet advised me not to give him a bath until he'd recovered or the shock might set him back.
The laundry trough was one-third filled with warm water and a few squirts of organic body wash. He looked so tiny in there, soaked and bewildered.
I put my most ancient Polarfleece top on; the one I wear when I'm cuddling him because it disguises the handfuls of fine white hairs that he discards like pollen. Sapphire stood by with the camera, alternating between laughter and "Careful, Mum!"
He was surprisingly calm during it all and rather sedately allowed me to towel him down. Gently, of course.
Again heeding the vet's advice - no hairdryers because they're far too hot for rabbits' delicate skin and fur - he was wrapped in another dry towel and sat with me in the living room directly under the wall heater.
I even dared fancy that he was quite enjoying the warmth and attention as well as being allowed inside whilst Love Chunks was still at work. I know that I was enjoying it - he may only weigh one-and-a-half kilograms but he's still worth a kiss or three on the nose and stroking his warm ears and silky soft fur is both mesmerising and therapeutic.
A couple of hours later he was dry and ready to be placed on the lawn outside with a fresh carrot. Sapphire was doing her homework and I decided that it was time to read through all of the Age magazines and weekend inserts.
Love Chunks arrived home to hear my shocked snort. "Oh he can't read, you daft old sod," he said, ruffling my hair.
Of course I knew that. Still, this particular Saturday insert was one that would never make it into the pile of papers used to line Skipper's hutch.