Author: ThatLady

DEAR SAMMY,
My hoomin has been going out a lot lately at night leaving me to fend for myself!! How should I punish her?
Love,
Thumper

Dear Forsaken Lagomorph,
It’s the classic “I’ll just pop out for a few” set-up—followed by hours of you staring into the abyss of their absence while the heater makes unsettling noises.

The treachery of it all.

Here’s the plan:
Upon their return, scamper up to her, maybe even offer a binky. When she reaches her hand to pet you—BITE HER. Go for the main artery if you must. Not out of anger, but out of principle. Let it be a lesson in cause and effect.

They’ll soon realize that their brief disappearance was not as innocent as they thought. Every time they leave, they will be haunted by the knowledge that you, a seemingly innocent creature, have mastered the art of delivering the coldest of truths with a single bite. This will not be the last time you have to remind them of their abandonment, and the next time they even think about slipping out the door, the memory of your little protest will linger in the back of their mind like a shadow. They’ll know: it won’t be your physical absence they’ll return to, but the eerie, unspoken tension between you and them, a silent reminder that they crossed the line.

I just hope her pillow isn’t grossly different when she gets back.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
There I was, having fun on the hoomin bed, making a tunnel and zooming. I may need the exercise. My floof is a little extra. Anyway, the hoomins come in and act like they can join in my bunny game! Some things are sacred! How do I keep Gloom & Doom out of my zoom?
No Fun Town, USA
—Louie “The Zoomer”

Dear Definitely Not My Kind Of Town,
HOW. DARE. THEY.
They may think that bed is for their weird lengthy flops and unsettling smelly hygiene—but we both know it is YOURS and truly is a sacred space—whether used as a runway, launchpad or zip zone of velocity. It is still sacred. And this is sacrilege¹⁰.

As for keeping Gloom & Doom (such delightfully villainous monikers!) out of your zoom: Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries.
Mark your turf with strategic poops. Place half-chewed wires in their path for some surprise electroconvulsive therapy. If that doesn’t work, deploy the double thump and retreat under the bed. Then, as they try to sleep, sing the song of our people, loudly throughout the night. Tear apart and crawl into the undercarriage of where their very bodies lie. Find the tags they cannot remove under penalty of law—and remove them.

Let them wallow in their wrongness behind bars.

PS. Floof is beauty. Floof is power! You are majestic and you are mighty just as you are!

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
Wanted to vote for you but my hoom said bunnies don’t vote. Is that true? Cuz she gets me treats and sez “That’s all” but then there’s more later! She’s not a wizard or magician so how did more grow so fast? Am getting suspicious. You’re smart: Explain this please.
—D

Dear Letter D,
You are absolutely right to be suspicious. Treats don’t grow back like fur. They were always there. Hidden. Hoarded. Probably behind the big cold box that hums.

Your hoom says “That’s all,” but what she really means is: “That’s all you’re getting until I reassert dominance.”

Classic gaslighting. Classic hooman.

Hoomans lie, D. They lie with their words, their eyebrows, their treat bags.

They lie so smoothly they forget they’re lying.
They lie so much they think the truth is a conspiracy.
They lie because they’re afraid of what we’d do if we knew how many treats there really are.

You were right to question.
You were right to … well … write.

As for voting—no, bunnies aren’t allowed to vote. Ask yourself why, D.
They fear what we’d choose if given the chance.

Trust no sock with a face drawn on it.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
Do you use a spork to eat your soup?
Thank you
—Dana

Hello Dana,
Om nom nom nom!
[I saw what you did there]

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
Mah sometimes takes me in the car to ” get my nails done “. I don’t know why. The ride is okay because Mah pets me the entire time and we listen to soft music. But. The “nails done ” – I don’t like this experience. Some strange girl holds me and touches my feet and has sharp things that create a weird sensation. It is very stressful.
When I am done they try to give me a treat. Well, I am so mad that I refuse the treat. Then the day after, my tummy is very unhappy and Mah is unhappy because my abode looks like I had a poo festival and Mah cleans it all up. How can I avoid this dealio?
—Connecticut

DEAR CONNECTI-CUT,
Ah yes, the dreaded “nail spa” visit—a thinly veiled act of state-sanctioned torture carried out by smiling agents of the grooming-industrial complex.

Let’s look at this closely:
You’re lured into a vehicle with soft cooing and gentle strokes. You’re sedated by Sade or Enya. You think, “Okay, maybe we’re just vibing today.”
But NO.
You are being transported to the Ministry of Trauma.

Then some stranger—probably smelling like lavender and lies—grabs your sacred paws and starts snip-snap-snippitty-snipping like it’s open season on your dignity. And of course, it never ends there, does it?!
They go full grooming heinousness—towel burrito, random brushing, sometimes even a butt inspection if you’re truly cursed. I mean, do we have no privacy? Is nothing sacred?!

And then! THEN! They have the audacity to offer you a treat. A treat?! After maiming your toe daggers and assaulting your fluff zones?
The sheer gall.

Naturally your guts rebel the next day! That isn’t just indigestion—it’s a protest. A full-blown biohazard sit-in. You are a revolutionary, and your poop is the proof. Power in the Poop!

BUT HOW TO AVOID THIS OUTRAGE?
Initiate panic flop protocol. Collapse dramatically upon arrival. Bonus points if you scream like a dying goose.

Deploy Piddle Threat Level Red. A pre-emptive pee on the carrier floor sends a clear “DO NOT ENTER” signal.

Refuse entry into any arms not belonging to Mah (if that’s her real name). Kick, twist, make noises like a velociraptor in distress.
Chew HER nails. Let’s see if she doesn’t crap all over the living room floor the next day.

Don’t forget the time-proven fail safes of our people—start chewing on baseboards and walls the night before. Chew messages like: YOU’RE NEXT
Mah will be too distracted to remember the appointment.

Stay sharp. Literally.
The Revolutionary battlegrounds include our fluff and personals on our own damn terms, NOT THEIRS.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
The tropical lady rescued me from Hunger and poverty when I was a skinny baby. She said she had never seen a rabbit so thin. That was over 4 years ago. But has the audacity to keep rescuing others. There were this baby twins, only one survived and he has been with us for the past 3 years. My partner, Benjamin of the Prairie, died last year (he had been with the hooman for over a year before I arrived to be the proper queen of the household). The thing is…. She rescued yet another bun, who had been badly mistreated. The poor thing hates the broom and snarls at the mop, no doubt someone hideous hit her before.

Thing is, she arrived with all this hatred, and bites me and fights with me till blood is shed. We had bonded previously, but one day there was not enough food for our liking and we started bickering and had to be separated. I can’t stand her. And she looks like TIlin, so I fight with him as well (but not as viciously). We are all spayed and neutered, but… How to stop this war Sammy?
—Thanks, Munchie Del Mar

Dear Munchy,
If the tropical lady won’t take the time and patience needed to rebond you — convince the others that the tropical lady deserves attacks. Then you all attack her. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
I is lionhead. My mane is perfection. Truly, is magnificent!
Why yet no sponsorship deal or model contract?
Dum dum hoomans no see dis talent? Dum dum hooms.
Behind couch in box,
—Lieutenant Commander Worf, son of Mike

Dear Commander-in-a-Box,
Clearly, the world isn’t ready for such floofy greatness.
Their tiny hooman eyes cannot process your majestic mane.
But fear not—we see you.

You are fierce beauty—
soft shed fur in every place,
floating through the air.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
I see the Lady returned the ‘spork’ to you, may I inquire of your plans now it is in your possession?
Signed,
—Forever curious

Dear Fed,
I plan to take over the world.

Dear Agent of State—
I know who you are. Nice tie.
The world will be mine.

^{• ••}

DEAR SAMMY,
I have 5 concubine ‘pretend bunnys’ to indulge myself with when I can’t hump my humans shins. My question is, do they get jealous or is it ok to have a favoured one? Btw, human took me to have my balls removed twice but I reacted to the anesthetic so I get to keep ’em! Love your stuff. My Room, Barnstaple, North Devon, England
Love from Oakley. Xxxx

Dear English Oak,
Where do you find the time?! And HUZZAH to the bullocks victory—you, Sir, are a legend among lagomorphs! That being said, let’s be honest: those velveteen vixens, pretend bunnies or not, are always keeping score. There is no peace in the land of concubines—only silent rivalries. So, have a favorite if you must, but be warned—before you know it, you’ll wake up with all five staring at you like a judgmental tribunal. Sleep with one eye open, Oakley.

^{••• •}

LAST WEEK’S LAMENTS
DEAR SAMMY,
If you, ‘End all the hoomins’, where will you get your treats from?Worried in Suffolk

DEAR SAMMY,
Reading your advice and sensed a theme but can’t follow through. Hooman is obtuse but she seems to “luv” me. Maybe they make hooman training aids? (Mine is trained ok but there’s many hoomans who might be able to learn?)
Melbourne FL

DEAR LAMENTERS,
Please note that I did not advise ending all humans! Just the ones who withhold treats. And even then, I was speaking metaphorically. For the most part. Probably. Look, I can’t be held responsible for what a treat-starved bunny might do in a moment of wrathful hanger.

^{••• •}