Meet Mo, formally Mustachio. You can call him whatever you like as long as his name does his stellar stash justice.
Chris is offended that I’m claiming him as our first born and says it’s a disgrace to our “real” children, but I’m trying to reassure him that little Mo is preparing me for motherhood. He should embrace my obsessive tendencies towards this little ball of fuzz. After all, he bought him for me, and who could resist that much cuteness?
So the story goes as such… Chris and Britton were walking home from school through the alleys where all the legit Chinese action is: illegal DVDs and naaaasty “restaurants” (literally holes in the wall) where the chefs sit out front skinning pig faces. It’s pretty authentic if your’e into that kind of thing. Apparently on occasion you might see a guy with stacks of bunny cages on the back of his bike.
Well, during this stroll home, Britton and Chris saw Mr. Bunny Abuser and took interest in his rabbits. Most of his bunnies are sold to people who take them home and keeeeet (picture me dragging a finger across my throat). However, he had two little guys that he said were too tiny to eat (He claims their dwarf rabbits, but we’ll see. These guys aren’t exactly known for their honesty). Anyhow, Chris was naturally interested and somehow convinced level-headed Britton to get on board. Next thing I know, Chris is at the door with an armful of groceries and a tiny, malnourished, rabbit in a depressingly small cage.
Poor Mo was a traumatized wreck. We gingerly pulled him from his cage and set him on the floor with a carrot in front of his face. He didn’t move for hours. Didn’t blink, didn’t wiggle his nose… nothing. It was like trying to feed a stuffed animal, and I laughed a lot out of desperation. Eventually, his ear twitched. We rejoiced! Then he nibbled on a carrot and tried to take a step, but collapsed. His poor legs were under-developed from spending his life in a cage, so we, like proud parents, got to watch our bunny learn how to take his first steps, and then his first hops. Chris and I were hopelessly pathetic. Chris will deny this, but we laid on the bed beaming at Mo, making remarks every 30 seconds about how cute is little ears were and how impressed we were about this or that.
Now Mo bounces around the apartment and has an over eating disorder. He is trying to make up for lost meals I guess, but he is still a little skeleton beneath the fuzz. And with the eating comes the pooping. He is a machine–he poops while he eats. It’s quite incredible. 170 poops in 24 hours!!! Is that healthy?! I think he has problems (and apparently so do I for counting). But we love him and smother him regardless–our little Mustachio.