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Kayden Kross Blog

Completely Unrelated to Porn, like everything else I write about lately.

My rabbit was running rampant again. He did this of course
because he gets off on small scale types of perfectly executed incremental
torture tactics--the kind that let you fly under the radar.
Our issue is the cage. He just got a new one. It's divine as
far as I'm concerned. It's called a bunny townhouse to be exact, because it's
two stories high with tasteful cedar accents and a little bunny ramp to go
between the levels, and finally a piece de resistance that I like to call the
master suite, better described as a little wooden bunny box with an arched
doorway. I thought it would be big enough that I could put him in it without
having to deal with the creepy bunny death stares that he likes to give when
he's locked up. I was wrong.
He did the same thing during his potty training stint when
he was a kid. Freud would call this the anal stage, the power struggle. I just
remember repeatedly referring to him as the asshole. I'd leave him locked in
his cage when I was gone so that he wouldn't stray too far from his litterbox and
"forget" where it was and leave a mess for me to come home to. Instead I came
home to bunny rage over the matter. When I'd finally let him out he'd typically follow a routine of briefly
attacking my foot before running under the nearest piece of low furniture and
staring at me for the remainder of the night.
He hated my slippers. They had little fuzzy monkey heads on
them. I suspected that he felt his dominance was being threatened. As I'd walk
around the house before bed he'd wage guerilla warfare against them from
militarily strategic sites such as my closet and treadmill. He'd rip into the
furriest part and dart off again, leaving me unsure of my place in my own home.
He got bolder and the hit and runs turned into full-blown
stalking. When I sat answering emails for hours on end I could see him creeping
in on the desk, ears flat and nose twitching. Then I'd feel the jolt of my
slippers being assaulted and I'd yell, all alone in my house, "No Sammy! Bad
rabbit!" but he'd already be gone.
He finally got the slippers. I woke up one morning and found
holes burrowed through not one, but both of the monkey heads. That was the end
of an era. We settled into a comfortable routine after that. He liked to eat
off my plate when I made salads and sit on my head when I slept at night. Then we
The new place had a patio that I though was perfect for him
to rule in my daily absence, free of electrical cords and book spines to gnaw
through and stocked with plenty of fresh air and greenery. He ate the greenery
though, then burrowed through the root system, and within a matter of days I
got a frantic call from the building manager who wanted an explanation as to
why my downstairs neighbor woke up with a rabbit sitting on her head. After
months of failed attempts at rabbit-proofing the patio I gave up, and that
leads us to this moment, where we have hit a stalemate over the cage.
I got him back today after a week of texts and phone calls
and emails from neighbors with bunny sightings. Once he's off my patio there's
nowhere for him to go, aside from everyone else's patio. It's the roof of a
tall building. He can't be cornered though, so all we do is wait, and watch.
The neighbor who finally caught him did so by turning his
entire unit into a large-scale bunny trap. I got the victorious call this
afternoon and rushed over. He was fat, but otherwise unharmed. And we're back
to square one, with me sitting nervously at my computer under the watchful
glare of a caged rabbit. 

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