I am eight and this is my one hundredth entry in my diary so it's a very special day. As nobody knew my exact date of birth I celebrate for the whole of July. Well, I try to.
Now, do I times by ten or by seven? If it's ten then I am eighty but if it's seven then I'm only ummmm, would it be sixty four? No. That sounds like a song.
Anyway, I'm still as fit as a fiddle and can still jump as high as a kite and can run as fast as a ....rabbit. I get plenty of practice in this house.
I was to have a birthday portrait done but only on condition I would allow J to groom me before hand. Nope. Not for a hundred birthday portraits. I don't mind my head and ears brushed gently but no further down my back thank you very much. We buck rabbits have our pride. Doe buns might like to be titivated so they can attract good looking chaps like me but not yours truely. If I can't get to some bits to straighten then they have to stay fluffy. Rabbits don't get fur balls like cats, thank goodness. Well, rarely.
Eight is a good age for a rabbit. My cousins in the wild rarely live longer than eighteen months,or so I read in a book. This is my pensive look by the way.
I might take a short nap now. Napping is one thing you are allowed to do when you are as old as I am.
Before I go, I thought you might like to see my latest artistic creation. I did it all by myself on the best sofa. I know George will like it. He loves frills.Happy birthday to me.
