Stories I can't change because I never had a hand in writing them

Mark Twain said: 'Courage is not the lack of fear it is acting in spite of it.'
So many things that I do now are to fill the gaps of what I didn't do before. To replace a memory over one I'm ashamed of, to do something I didn't do before, only still to lie in bed, horrified by what I did - or did not do one day, someday long ago or yesterday. My errors might look small to some, but they loom like bolders on the road to me. they may seem insignificant because the ones that keep me up at night, and soak my loyal dog's coat with tears on days when the sun just never seems to make it through my window and creep along the pillow to me - are usually, almost exclusively, related to animals.
People might have thought me foolish, or weak or softhearted or just too easily brought to tears, I know i've been told to many times to count that I'm just 'too sensitive' or 'too busy thinking of the past, and not the future,' but it's life that swings a club at my sense of dignity and life - and why we're here and if I fail in small steps, then the larger ones are not strong enough to get me where I want to go, and that's to know I did right, when I could, and didn't fear being foolish in the process of it.
So I get parking tickets when I jump the curb to leave my car and guide baby ducks across a main road because one day I follwed a mother duck and her ducklings down lanes and through gardens, not knowing how to help them, and not realising I was - no doubt - scaring the crap out of them and leading them somewhere they'd never escape. I've rescued ducklings from courtyards and pried them from prickle bucshes, only to have them die on the way home because I forgot to bring a hot water bottle, or food. Regrets are many and about as prickly as those damn bushes, and yet, unlike those scratches, I still feel the pinch on days like these lately when it's cold and wet and I wonder what the hell all the animals do, when my own chickens huddle by my back door and wrestle with each otherr to try to get inside and the tree in my window is waving like a child at an airplane just landed.
So I don't mind making a fool of myself because I know i'm lucky, to be warm, to have the chance to help, even one animals if not any that cross my crooked path, and that the misery that so often lands in my mind and stops me from doing anything more than remembering the worst of myself and the world, isn't going to do anyone any good, but still makes it hard for me to swing my legs over the bed and get to it. Because sometimes it is hard to be the only one singing the song, alone, out of key, and so often missing the right notes, so that animals die as often as they live, and my huge back yard is a mass of tiny graves, but I still try to make it pretty anyway. But just because trying to help is so often embarrassing or hurtful or hard or pointless or the beginning of a hardship I'd not expected, doesn't mean I let myself ignore what i see anymore. I can't keep driving past the dog that looks lost, or the corpse of the animals that is drawing birds to the middle of the road where they're getting a meal for a minute only to get crushed and add to the attraction.


It's a whole hell of a lot better than the sting of regret, and the soaking wet coat of my dog when I finish crying, knowing it doesn't make a pinch of difference to regret it now unless I do something to make it up. so i do a lot of weird things that I don't tell anyone about, and hope that they wallpaper over the hurt and regret and grief of what i did or did not do before. A lifetime ago or just yesterday. Because mistakes are so easy to make, and effort is so hard when you know you're the only one thinking this way - or so it feels some days.
So i bundle up courage, and arm myself with the knowledge that if I fail, it's not without trying, and that's almost as good as succeeding, somehow, sometimes. Pity it doesn't feel that way in my heart.
So if anyone saw me raging at my finches in their aviary a couple days ago, swaying with the beginnings of the flu and misery, you'd think i was nuts. And I guess i am a lot of the time, because it's nuts to think you can ever make up for the past, for not having any courage, or for caring about what people think. I'm way past that point now, so the raging at finches as small as an eyeball made sense to me then and still does now.
Because as is often the case, I had a box of broken finches that the bird shop gave me. They do this sometimes, and once they even held a family of beautiful yellow budgerigars because the owner couldn't care for them and she wanted them to go to a 'good home'. That was one of the really shiny days I felt maybe I really had made a home, rather than an animal's halfway house, or hospice and that i was doing some good, even if it was for a couple yellow budgerigars who hopped into that aviary and seemed to think they were in a kissing booth. I know I sound sorry for myself, because I am - today. It's a black day and I have them sometimes, months of them, once, a couple years of them and never when I expect them and always when I'm weak and sore and unprepared, and it's like a car-napping, I'm caught suspended, and I just fold up and gasp at the thought that once I was able to work a whole day. Just changing the case on the pillow is exhausting on a black day. How did I write stories, whole books? A series of them? and plan others? Apply for grants, go to lectures, teach lectures? it seemed like an impossible dream, my real life, when it fell into those black days.
Lately, the black days were blown away by the spring breeze of hope and good writing and great books, love, and weather. But it still creeps up on me on days like this and I fear for what's not being done - what I'm missing on this one precious day - just as much as i fear that it's the beginning of a couple years worth of blackness and shame, regret, pain and misery. But I don't think so. Not today. Not for me. I've got a story to write anyway, and I can't write when I'm black I can barely think beyond the horror of what I'd drawn to me. How will my animals survive if I can't even leave my room? How will I tell everyone I can't do what I planned? All those plans ... they seem extraordinary. made by someone else. Who thought I was someone else entirely. How did I make them? Why? It seems impossible to consider doing anything other than lying here, on those black days. and there were so many of them, I don't want anymore, it's a waste of a life. My life, creeping by, sweeping by me, waving slightly as it passes. It's black depression and I am relieved every morning when I can't smell it sitting on my heart so heavy it hurts to carry around. Each day it's not here I smile, relieved. And so i do what I know it hates, what will surely drive it away forever - something that will at least try to make up for the images and memories and things i did that slide over me like sweat when I'm black. I try to banish depression by doing the opposite of everything it feeds off. And embarrassing myself by being 'too sensitive' is no punishment at all. I'll make a fool of myself all over town if it does one aniamls some good and stomps on the crystal clear memory that tears my heart out when I'm black at night, with the smell of my dog's patient, kind, ever waiting coat in my face as if that had been his job since he was born and abandoned somewhereup in the hills of south australia. He sits on the bed covering my feet, toes, or just leaning against me, and if he hears me cry, he just moves himself closer, and presses on in.
I swear on mornings after nights like that that I'll get better but it's like asking someone to sew their own fingers back on.Iit takes more than your own head to fix itself. I swear to myself I won't let myself self lose this story like I lost a couple back in those black days three years ago, when nothing felt like me, nothing came in, or went out, I was just like a girl made of wood, with yellow hair she didn't even have the strength to wash. Bad days indeed and not just for those had to look at me.
Ii know sometimes, lots of times, I do a good thing, but it's the times i don't, that I fail, that shines brighter in my mind, and is so often the reason I'm 'just too sensitive', so I try hard not to think about them, which is about as helpful as not looking at doughnuts at the Krispy Kreme stand as you go through Melbourne airport.
I can look out my window and see them now, splashing in the water bowls and picking each other over, preening and making friends with the bird in the mirror, swinging on little plastic swings and always, always gossiping.
There's always room in my aviary for another couple birds, especially ones as big as an eyeball, right? but I didn't know one of these birds would make me cry at nights for a week, just because no bird would sit with him.
And if you've seen a bunch of finches you'll know they sit up close, snuggle up, especially in the cold. and it's been cold enough not to be able to sleep sometimes this past week or two.
But despite this one, black with a red beak, meaning he was a male charcoal I called little dude, because he was couldn't fly too well, but spent his days jump/flying from branch to swing to another branch and another swing (this is why, mum, my aviaries are so full of stuff, it's not because I don't want them to fly, to be free, I dream of it often enough I think half the time they are, in a way. At least they're not in a box, and they're outside and they're as free as i can make them until one day I have an aviary I dreamt of once, that covered the whole garden and yet let the little ones without legs, or a wing or an eye, still stay safe. That would sure be an good aviary then and I'd no doubt fill it about as much as they are now...but that stuff is there because they can't fly, mum, and they need these steps. I swear. I tell you every visit but you still shake your head and tell me there's too much 'crap' in those aviaries for a poor bird to fly' one day I hope you'll understand at last) then he'd get a fright about something and fall all the way down. i coated the bottom of the cage with soft baby blankets from the opp shop but they got wet so often I spent more time changing them. He hopped out the door once when I was changing the seed and water and I just picked him up and put him back in, but for a moment he saw the world without those bars and I wish now i'd just let him sit a while longer. I forget what it is to be always behind something when I'm not sick or sorry about something and shoved up inside my house without need to leave. At least the choice is my own.
So after a weekend of migraine so bad i had the doc come give me a shot in my behind I can still feel five days later, like a muscle I never had, I went out to change water and seed, feeling frail and cranky and regretful of a weekend spent with frozen peas on my head and the sense of my brains being squeezed to tight to work anymore. I once sliced my forehead deep on each side to let out the pressure, I'd lost my mind so much with the pain. I know slightly better now.





and little dude was splayed out, half frozen in a bowl of water as deep as my first knuckle. So my little dude didn't live with me longer than a week, and despite thinking i should put him in a cage, bring him inside, I knew finches loved company. Most finches anyway. No one more than this finch. I couldn't bring him in alone. But this one, despite his efforts, despite courage and strength and determination I would watch with open mouthed admiration from my desk as he jumped and flew ever higher each day, trying to get to the top where the pretty white finches hung out, like a four year old kid crashing his way through the back of the bus, hoping to sit with the cool kids. Despite everything I tried to do, he never had a friend to cuddle up with, never had anyone to press against when it blew so hard all the loose buckets and brooms and dog toys in the yard flew up against the shed and for the first time, the butterfly chairs really did get a chance to fly. I wrote in another blog about a finch who had a friend so loyal she stayed with him as he died, as his body went cold in the nest beside her.
I thought that was a sad story and I guess it really is, but there's always something worse. That's why the black days are worse than any I've had with fever or flu or post ops when I'd lie on the floor to change the dressings so i cwouldn't hit my head on the bath as i fainted, or migraines so sharp they make me slice into my temple with a half blunt kitchen knife until I could feel pain somewhere other than behind my right eye, because my brain just never shuts up when it's got something to say, and most days it just seems to want to tell me sad stories.
I wish one day it would shut the hell up, but I know then I'll not have another day to try to make up for those stories I hate so damn much. I think it's better to let my brain slowly edge them out, wallpaper over them with the good ones I try to crack open and look at, on those black days.
So if you see me raging at birds who won't make friends with a little crippled guy who spent his days trying to get high enough to sit with the prettiest ones in their nests, or stomping out of shops because they sell glue traps that leave mice to die of wretchedness and starvation while we watch, or fight for the right to be able to park in a clearway when it's the only way I can get to the ducklings raining down from the trees in the footpath, or any of the other stuff I do that makes my family wonder whether that fall from a hammock really did knock something loose in my mind. I wish I didn't care so damn much either way. I wish I could just drive by the hurt like i've seen people drive by a scared dog loose on the road.
Listening to: 'Rain, birds, and the whine of my dog urging me to take him to the dog park despite the rain
Eating: cup o' soup and Darrell Lea rocky road - it's so good without the glace cherries
Thinking About: see above
Watching: You tube videos that make me laugh
Reading: 'A world of baby names' for my current book
Wearing: Enough clothes to make my arms stick straight out from my shoulders
Writing: My YA series, still looking forward to writing it more than anything, even chocolate. I love this stage.

Danger At Safe distance - and How animals set a high standard of life

Kirsty Brooks on crime fiction and other things both anecdotal and animal related - what we learn from animals and how we can make life better by just thinking each chore/job/moment through a little more. Our lives are far far too short to waste doing things we hate.

Crime has always been wildly attractive to me. Being a middle-class private school teenager who spent my time mooning over Johnny Depp in 21 Jump Street and dancing in my bedroom, I also learned that reading a book a day didn’t create the basis for a full and exciting social life. I was, clearly, a criminal in the making.

Nicking a pack of Burger Rings, being late returning library books, and learning to smoke (only to accept a ‘jazzed’ cigarette and ending up at the local beach, trying to ‘return all the seaweed to the ocean’) merged to create a foundation of ‘fine line’ mistakes that saw me unemployed, at twenty three, with only my vast collection of books and a maxed out credit card to distinguish me from the other bewildered over-educated kids in Adelaide. Or the nearest street kid.

Until one night…

It was the most boring party I’d ever been to. Fifteen drug-addled Goths sitting around a fire staring at the visions within. A girl with a white rat on her shoulder was talking monotonously about her crappy life. And I was sinking into an emotional funereal dirge.

And then something happened to change it all.

The mix of tequila, raspberry cordial and Savoury Shapes began to have an unexpected effect on me. While everyone else was slumped in personal torment, I got lively. And a little chatty…

I told the pink-haired smell-bomb on my left about the day I broke into Leyland Brothers World (a theme park wedged inside a fake Uluru in New South Wales) and had my photo taken with my head stuck through dozens of celebrity cardboard cut-outs before the cops arrived. She smiled (tightly, but it was something).

Spurred on, I told the tiny shrunken child/man on my other side about the sad day I drank the bong water. He seemed unsurprised, but at least he was looking at me.

And so was the spunky guy in a dented top hat. I moved seamlessly on to the time I drove my friend to her gigs as a sex-worker before she abruptly left town owing me a thousand bucks. Now even the shaky host was watching. Someone laughed.

Drunk on popularity and not a little Stone’s Ginger Wine that Edward Clammyhands thrust at me, I scrabbled around in my brain - which suddenly felt large and unnaturally shiny – for more stories.

I told them about buying drugs in a motel, only to have to climb out the window as the local drug lord kicked in the door to eliminate the competition (either that or he was just keen to buy some speed so heavily cut with Ajax I had a nose bleed for two weeks).

And soon, every single red-stained, black-rimmed eye in the room was focussed on…Me.

And then the funereal dirge girl opened some chips. The spunk changed the music. A tall bloke looked like he might start dancing but he was just adjusting his hair.

However, a strange thing was happening in the world’s most negative of places - there was merriment at a Goth party. Okay, so this was mostly because I was happy to reveal myself as a gormless simpleton but I realised something else. Sure, I’d done a lot of totally stupid things in my life, but somehow in the retelling they seemed less sad and directionless and more - if I was very, very careful - entertaining.

And, just so you know this wasn’t in any way an epiphany or pivotal moment, five years later I used some of these stories in my first novel. And then, not the next month, or even the next year, Wakefield Press published it as Lady Luck.

And thus encouraged, I wrote another one. And it got picked up by another publisher. So I wrote another. And another.

And since then, I have been asked if there is a secret to getting published.

Mostly I tell people that there is no secret. If you write a book that’s good enough to make people want to read the next page then you’re doing well. And if most pages in the manuscript do this, then the manuscript will be published.

Writing is not just self-expression. It’s the skill of communicating to someone else; of touching someone (not in a rude way) through your words. And my awareness of the (rather large) gap between what I liked reading, and what I’d previously been writing, helped me immeasurably.

Article Interval

Here's my one-eyed Galah - Bernie 'Boo' who, to me, defines the determination, endless hope and love of what you do - somehow despite the setbacks - that you need to become a successful writer. He was given to me after several potential carers didn't like his one-eyed-ness.



As it turned out, it was their loss as he's the perfect writing bird - sitting on my shoulder and shouting out words if I get forgetful or tired. Telling me who's left messages on my answering machine (I hate the phone and struggle the check messages each day ) and just defines affection, devotion and fun. so I've put him in here, no connection with this article except that my intention, always is to but to make you think about all the animals who might need your help and to think of how tough life is for an animal who has much to give - and never get the chance to give it - who can't find the right person - or is stuck in a cage with no one to talk to. He's so good he came to my TAFE lecture last night to prove this point of determination and hope to my wonderful students in the Write Fiction - The Novel class.

End of Interval

The night at the crap party changed my life. And not just because I pashed the spunky guy.

Because I did have a secret to getting my writing published.

And it was this.

I learned to consider who I was telling stories to. I learned to think of what I would like someone to talk to me about at a suicide-inducing party. I would want to be distracted, I’d want to learn stuff, (even if it’s just ‘Don’t throw Leyland Brothers merchandise at the police’) and with some careful editing, a story becomes more than an anecdote. It became entertainment.

And this insight became a window into things that my somewhat sharper readers might not be as crazy or brave or careless or stupid enough to get involved in. It’s danger at a safe distance. And, with a nod to the Goth party, it’s also not entirely unlike The Smiths’ lyric – ‘I can laugh about it now but at the time it was terrible’.

And terrible things intrigue people, not just because they are engaging, but because we are glad we aren’t there, and so we can (hopefully) also laugh, or cry or empathise, but because for a lot of people, danger is limited to leaving their bike helmet unclipped or putting their recycling in someone else’s bin. Crime fiction is alluring for the very reason it’s fiction, readers can escape into it, or away from it. The very nature of crime - the uncontrollable threat - is now in the reader’s hands. It has been tamed.

See, here’s the thing. Editors want to buy your manuscript. They want you to get published as much as you do. But this will only happen when you write something that other people want to read just as much as you want to write it.

Crime fiction could be called the ultimate voyeurism because it deals characters a bad hand and then lets us watch while they try to make the best of things. And if the basic premise of good fiction applies (that characters prove themselves in situations of conflict, both internal and external) then crime fiction offers up some amazing opportunities.

But this tag of voyeurism applies to most genres of fiction. Reading books, from biographies to SF, is a form of nosiness. We’re poking ourselves into other people’s lives; peering into their lounge-room, bedroom, coffin or headspace.

And in making the most of my (more apparent in hindsight) total disregard for personal safety I found a great basis for my writing that helped a lot in creating my ‘screwball’ crime novels and I have since written five, with three more under contract.

I love writing characters who struggle with the concept of good and evil, who have unusual lives, and with this mix I’ve slid neatly into a sub-genre that sees my books categorised under Chick lit, Humour, Crime, Popular and Romance Fiction.

In fact, every bookstore seems to shelve my books differently, but as long as they’re there, I’m very lucky, and happy. Because this is the best job in the world. It’s not just about sharing what’s in your heart, or mind, it’s about connecting with readers through the pages of a book. And knowing who my reader is has helped me reach her (and increasingly, to my surprise, him).

Crime fiction is created to divert, entertain, and go somewhere we’ve not been before, whether that’s into the mind of a killer, the house of a victim or the dressing room of the local Peek-a-boo cubicle.

And I can promise you that it’s a hell of a lot more fun than doing that stuff for real.

End of article - beginning of small aside.



Here are three of my birds - finches who started out with problems - Almondine (black and red finch) only had one half leg but adapted by being an amazing flier. The Dude (black and grey) couldn't fly and was always falling off his perch, so he made an excellent nest from where he ruled over the aviary. Tiny tiny (Firetail red and grey finch) escaped in and out of the bars of my aviary and eventually took longer and longer trips, Now he leaves for weeks and then comes back, has a feed and sits with the other finches and seems to tell them all his adventures. They all figured out ways to make their lives better.

I try to take a tip from them every day, look at my life, how I write, what my unconscious routine is, and try to find ways to make it easier, more pleasant, more efficient - usually so i have more time to do the things I love - play with my animals, read, write, etc. So now I wash my dishes with a book propped up on the window sill in one of those recipe holders made of clear plastic and have my meditation music playing - because I hate washing dishes. I used to let them stack up until I was using plastic cutlery. Now I do it every day because it gives me a chance to read and relax. (p.s Am also getting a small dishwasher to fit into my camper sized kitchen will also make that process easier...Soon I hope, as soon as I pay for my clear hanging bubble chair for the front verandah)

____________________

This article (without the asides or pictures) was first published in the VIC Writers’ Centre newsletter and then the Sisters in Crime newsletter - Stiletto.

Listening to: having just returned from Port Fairy (a wonderful relaxing, quiet and warm hearted town in victoria for a sisters in crime panel at the terrific Blarney books I listened to the audio book of A.M. Homes' novel 'This Book will Change Your Life'

Eating: Argh, ye gods... Honestly it's just far far too much traveling makes me eat sweets. 'Lady' week makes me eat sweets. Being happy makes me eat sweets (and both the holiday - possibly first holiday I was actually relaxed in for years, and returning to my excellent cuddling animals did this - Pedro the white rabbit hopped up into my lap this morning and got snuggled so much there's rabbit hair all over the place. Lucky that Shannon, my favourite cleaner is coming tomorrow) - I got addicted to the muesli at Spoons, a wonderful Port Fairy cafe and even got some to take home. am not usually a muesli person but this was heaven.

Also 'Frantic Whisk' biscuits bought at the car wash before returning 4WD Kluger - terrific fun to drive long distance) to my mum. Especially good are the Nougat Rounds. Getting excited about easter and accompanying chocolate, also worried about not fitting into clothes. which emotion shall will? Only time - and quality of chocolate - will tell. Personally, despite living in town with both excellent Bracegrindles and Haighs chocolate and a weakness created twenty years ago for Swiss Gloary white truffles, I'm a sucker for the Red Tulip Elegant Rabbit. they're just so... damn elegant.

Thinking About: How lucky I am to love going on holidays and look forward to coming home too. I missed Marshall starting at the end of the bed and ending up in my arms. I missed Bernie boo cuddling and commenting on everything. I missed the constant song and chatter and tweet and whistle of my canaries, finches and cockatiels outside my writing window. I'm looking forward to three or more baby finches emerging from a nest up top of my aviary.

Unlike my canaries (who sometimes just toss the babies if there's something wrong with them - and I try to save them with mixed results - they're usually right). The finches are great parents and Hamster is always there as baby sitter/surrogate mum if anythign goes wrong - I posted a film I made onto Youtube of her doing her thing feeding adopted baby finches - quite a remarkable sight) I missed Monty trying to Woo Opie and Opie doing the equivalent of swatting him over the head by sort of batting him with a wing and going to the next branch, where he continues to serenade her for hours. He's a great singer but he needs a new song.

I missed cuddling my rabbit Pedro and having her make little happy noises and then leap about, bum high in the air, ready for chasing and hide and seek games. I didn't miss the mess of a backyard as we're in the baby steps of getting the whole thing redone - with my design that I have to finish and clear with the landscaper.

Watching: Nothing on TV except Animal Rescue show - usually on Wednesday, but it's been off the last couple of weeks so I must restrain myself. Old eps of Ned and Stacy that I found in perfect plastic wrap condition in the opshop for $2. Finches outside my window making nests with such industry and ingenuity.

Wearing: The KB Innovative Nightie/Dress(TM). I bought a bunch of excellent/almost flattering/soft dresses a couple months ago. As a gormless aside I also hate socks and wearing shoes at home (something Radio National caught in a picture they took during their Writers' Rooms' series - who knew they'd take pics for a radio interview?)

The first thing my mum said was: 'Why aren't you wearing shoes! You look like a bum!'- Anyway, I was constantly getting caught out in the nick by a handy man when our house was getting work done on it (an old, gorgeous, beachy looking flat/triangle roofed ranch house) as I don't like wearing nighties - I get all caught up in them, but these were different, maybe dresses are the key! So now in colder weather I can get out of bed and 'Be Dressed Already' - Hair and make up aside - this lazy approach to fashion also helps me work and write more efficiently and I can shower when I want to - which is often after I've got my work done for the day and can do less essential stuff (like this), etc.

The joys of working from home.

And believe me because I have asked - I do not stink. Clean your teeth, wear deodorant, drench yourself in perfume, you might get away with it. The teeth thing is essential, especially after a meal. and make your hair not stand up and your eye shadow and lipstick should be wiped from out of your ears and nose or wherever it goes during the night if you're not a good face washing person before you go to bed. If you do, as I do, often crash face first into bed, sometimes not in The KB Innovative Nightie/Dress(TM) but a glitter mini-dress with stacked party shoes still on.

Reading: Just finished '61 Hours' - the latest Lee Child Book. I am most frustrated by the 'to be continued' tag. Hate it on TV, hate it in books. Still, he promises another book later in the year so I'll have to not get too cranky when I go hear him talk in April. Also some real crime books on importing exporting illegal drugs in Australia for writing' The Tequila Bikini'. At the writers' panel on Sunday in Port Fairy I fessed up to trying to do my own research - especially the fun stuff - but this import/export bit is out of my league, sadly. I read a chapter this morning where there was a Glut of Cocaine in 1992, i.e. They couldn't get rid of it... Cripes. Just that sentence was a heart-starter.

Oh, and I forgot, another thing...

Rabbits and baby chicks at easter

And don't buy a rabbit or baby chicken for Easter unless you are prepared to care for them like your own children. And if you regret buying it because you realise this rabbit is too good for you and you made a Bad Decision, admit to it (and don't do what people I've seen do - which is a myriad of things but these are the kinder ones - if you can believe it - they drown them, leave them to live out their sad lives in the bathtub with crappy pellets, leave them out in the hutch and expect them to live on the dry dead grass and rain that falls in their feed bowl, leave the hutch open hoping they'll escape, kill them and eat them for dinner. etc) Yes, this is true and worse. Sometimes you might understand why I like animals more than many people, but I persist in trying to believe that the world, and humans are essentially good. I try, I really do. I have chickens and a rabbit and they are cool, but you need to be cooler. Being cool means knowing yourself and being able to reach inside your heart and understand if you really can care for a fully grown chicken or rabbit for the rest of their lives.

And if you still decide to get a Rabbit, desex it. And if you really think you don't want it anymore - take it to a proper shelter, or email me... Yes, you might incur my wrath but then I'll give you some advice or take it off your hands. Remember, most rabbits don't like being picked up and played with. chocolate is much better for you than my disapproval. BUT, if you sincerely want a rabbit. Go to the Small Animals Rescue Sites that dot the internet, there are loads of excellent rabbits who are desperate for homes.



Here is a picture of Pedro, who is great. She (Yes, I thought she was a boy until I got her desexed) sleeps during the day and is lively just when I am lively - i.e. night time. But I carried her around and and watched her and tested her out and made sure she was the kind of rabbit I wanted - which was a house rabbit (i.e small hutch inside, but roams the house, has kitty litter trays where she needs them (in three small corners of the house) and fresh leaves, thistles, and special hay each day, corn on the cob and her fancy pellets.

She rewards me by running towards me, cuddling up to me, and licking my arms and playing with me. I clean out her litter trays, water and feed bowls each day and clean her area, make her new cardboard box houses to destroy and hide in (they must have two doors or they won't use them) and like any animal, they involve work as well as fun, but she is also very funny, loving and kind. I crouch down to hug her and if I have to carry her, I use both hands to hold her tight to my body so she knows she's safe.

Well, Ciao, my little rays of sunshine, my lovely pals. Go do something good today. One good thing for you, one for someone else. you'll be amazed how much better you feel about the latter than the former. Trust me.