As you know there has been a skirmish on the north front with injuries on both sides.  Marmots lying covered in garlic breadcrumbs.  Gruesome best describes it for this intrepid reporter.

Roger Sutton is mentioned in dispatches.

In the yeah, yeah, yeah, we know who wrote the press release department...


This just in:

Rabbitville authorities—otherwise known as "Cops Who Hop"—have reported an escape from the Rabbitville jail. The escapee is described as a tall, handsome bunny, unjustly incarcerated and seeking only natural justice. He has vowed to get the "marmot who set me up nyaaah nyaaah." Any such rabbits should be on the lookout.

Film at 11.

You will be happy to know that Mr.  Bunny is rotting in jail.  HA!  For impersonating a much-loved rabbit.  He is happy as a clam there honing his stand-up.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bunny has received 182 letters asking for advice of all kinds.  She did not at first know how to tackle this but The Rabbitville Courier has asked her to do a weekly advice column.  For those of you who do not subscribe to The Rabbitville Courier, Mrs. Bunny will be posting a weekly video reading her sage response to some lucky chosen reader.
Please keep those cards and letters coming.  Mrs. Bunny has enjoyed them and now appears to be making a career of them.  And they will keep Mr. Bunny amused during his short but (let us hope) rehabilitative incarceration.
Mrs. Bunny does ask that you include your age with your letter.  Many the time she has advised someone to stay in school and for heaven's sake get a library card only to find out the writer is 42.  Not that it isn't sage advice anyhow.  Except for the school part.  If you are still in school at 42, graduate already.

Mr. Bunny is a bad bunny.  A bad, bad bunny.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdIzqFwSplg

Mrs. Bunny is pretty sure this started out as a marmot suggestion.

Oh, how Mrs. Bunny loathes a bragging bunny.  There is nothing worse.  So Mrs. Treaclebunny has taken over this post.

This is Mrs. Treaclebunny.  No one I know has insisted that I write a short entry here to say that Mr. and Mrs. Bunny - Detectives Extraordinaire! besides being an Amazon 10 Best Books of 2012, an Indigo Best Book of 2012 and a Washington Post Best Book of 2012, has just been awarded Parent's Choice Gold Medal for 2012.
Mrs. Treaclebunny would like to commend these enterprises on their excellent taste and judgement.
Sally forth and judge again, she says to them.

Another of Mr. Bunny's Short-Lived Enthusiasms

Mr. Bunny is always complaining that Mrs. Bunny hops from short-lived enthusiasm to short-lived enthusiasm.  However, it is just as often that it is he.

Case In Point

(By the way Mrs. Bunny has decided to title her next book Case In Point.  Or perhaps all her books.  It emphasizes in a sneaky way that she is always right and everyone else is always wrong. What more does one want in a book?)

Mr. Bunny came into the kitchen this morning and said, "Guess what, Mrs. Bunny."
"Call me Tootsiewig,"  said Mrs. Bunny.
"I will not,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "Today I awoke with the idea of going into show business."
"You awake with that idea every day,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Remember the stand-up?  Remember that time on the stage at Stratford?"
"Yes, but this is a NEW way,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "I have an idea.  An idea loosely based, or inspired really, by the dancing waters in front of the Bellagio.  Remember that time in Vegas?"
"I remember the buffets,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "They seem to have a LOT of food there.  And don't blink an eye when Rabbits check-in.  They could put the buffet counters lower.  I had to hop up up up every time I wanted to serve myself."
"Never mind the buffets, Mrs. Bunny."
"Call me Tootsiewig."
"I want to start a show called the Dancing Ears.  I envision a stage where bunnies are below so that you see only the ears.  A light show, the movement of the ears to music.  I have already choreographed a good bit in my head.  Some of it is thrilling.  Some of it is moving."
"Well, Mrs. Bunny is not moving.  Mrs. Bunny is not moving to Vegas; she is staying right here in her own hutch where the food is at the appropriate level,"  she said, sweeping out of the room.
Mrs. Bunny could be so deflating.

This morning on their hop, Mr. Bunny announced that he does not wish to be tethered to western ideas of time and space.
Oh dear.

And now for the story denouement!  Mrs. Bunny is very fond of denouements.  She can denoue with the best of them!  Also, she is very fond of exclamation points.  Many contemn the exclamation point.  Especially when used over-enthusiastically!  Although, one might ask, when else WOULD one use an exclamation point except when seized with enthusiasm?  And who would want a life lived without enthusiasm!  It would, indeed, be a life unlived!  Mrs. Bunny finds her own use of exclamation points to be judicious and just right.  She compares it to two bourbon biscuits with tea.  Treatlike without flying into the hysteria of eclairs.

And now for the marmots.

Mrs. Bunny drove along the road, what road that the marmots weren't hogging.  She drove for miles looking for the end of the marmot procession without finding one.  Fortunately she spied The Marmot, who was the only marmot she had had any particular dealings with.  She asked him what was up.  He said that he thought it rather obvious.  They were marching.  They were protesting.  In great numbers.  From all parts of the island.  They gathered.
"Dear me,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Protesting what?"
"We haven't yet decided.  In truth, we haven't decided if we are protesting or celebrating.  But I can assure you, it will be one of the two."
"And what's in the bags?"  asked Mrs. Bunny for each marmot was clasping a brown paper lunch bag in his sweaty little paw.
"None of your business,"  said The.
So Mrs. Bunny sighed and grabbed it away.  Upon opening it she smelled the distinctive smell of garlic bread.  She picked a piece up.  It was hard.  In fact, the whole bag contained little nubbins of day-old garlic bread.
"Okay,"  she said, sighing again, for marmots often gave her a headache.  "I give up."
"For throwing,"  said The.  "At the thing we decide to protest."
"Uh huh,"  said Mrs. Bunny, preparing to drive home again.
"Or in the air,"  said The.  "In celebration.  In either event we plan to go wild.  Absolutely wild!"
"Mrs. Bunny would prefer it if you left the exclamation points to those who know how to use them properly,"  was all she could think of to say.
Then she drove home.
"Don't tell me,"  said Mr. Bunny from the porch, opening his newspaper and hoping to get through it in peace.
So she didn't.
She told you.

Mrs. Bunny awoke this morning to the steady tromping of feet.  Always hoping that it is the UPS bunny coming to give her a present or perhaps a large prize of some sort, she ran outside in her nightgown and fur curlers only to see a long procession of marmots heading down the road.
Mr. Bunny was already up and having his coffee on the porch.
"Where do you suppose they are going?"  she asked.  "Why there must be a hundred!"
"With marmots one never knows,"  said Mr. Bunny with a sorry lack of curiosity for one who used to be a detective.
"Well, hop on over and ask them,"  said Mrs. Bunny.
"No, thank you,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "I try to keep my contact with marmots to a minimum."
"Then I am taking the smart car and finding out for myself," said Mrs. Bunny.
She leapt into it, curlers and all and gunned it.
"Some bunnies are are all squawk and no hop,"  she muttered to herself, naming no names.  "But I'll get to the bottom of this or my name is not Tootsiewig Bunny."
In fact, her name is NOT Tootsiewig Bunny but she has always wished it were.

STAY TUNED

Mrs. Bunny and Mr. Bunny were having a morning hop in the woods when Mrs. Bunny began screaming incoherently and hopping up and down in place, waving her arms about and making snorting noises.  This was unusual behavior even for Mrs. Bunny.  When she had calmed down somewhat Mr. Bunny asked her what the matter was and Mrs. Bunny announced that a bug had flown up her nose.   She was unable to get it out.
"That is unfortunate,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "For everyone knows that a bug that successfully makes it past the snorting attempts to expel it, and carries on upwards, eventually makes it to its desired destination, the frontal lobes.  And then it eats your brain."
Mrs. Bunny looked at him with horror.  She knew he was only having his little joke but such a thought had occurred to her more than once on similar occasions.  The fact that her brain seemed to have survived several such bug journeys was no comfort.  It was her private contention that in each case the bug had entered through the nose but exited through her long and fuzzy ears, bypassing the brain completely.
No more of this was said for Mr. Bunny was intent on telling Mrs. Bunny every tedious detail of his last shopping trip and the bargains thereof and seemed to have forgotten the bug.  Mrs. Bunny was not so fortunate.
That evening, however, at Jeopardy, Mrs. Bunny declared Spain to be the capitol of Chile and Eisenhower to be the fourth president.
"Ah,"  said Mr. Bunny, "the bug has begun to munch.  I guess I should say good by to the Mrs. Bunny I used to know and love."
Ha ha ha.
Mrs. Bunny spent the night with her furry paws clutching her head.  Just in case it helped.
Mr. Bunny spent the night on the couch.
In the morning Mrs. Bunny found a squished bug on her pillow.  She ran to get Mr. Bunny.
"Look!" she cried, pointing to it.
"Ick,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "Change the pillowcase."
"You are missing the point!"  said Mrs. Bunny impatiently.  "The bug made his way back out."
"How did he do that?"  asked Mr. Bunny.
"Perhaps through my ear,"  said Mrs. Bunny.
"Mrs. Bunny,"  said Mr. Bunny,  "I really don't want to hear about bugs for at least a fortnight.  A joke is a joke but now I really AM beginning to worry about your frontal lobes."
"Ha!"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "The evidence is undeniable."
Mr. Bunny just shook his head and proceeded with his day.
That night at Jeopardy Mrs. Bunny skunked Mr. Bunny.
She rests her case.

Mrs. Bunny is sorry she has been away but she had to attend the funeral of a dead bunny pal.  All the rabbits gathered on a hill at dusk and then there was but one song played.  The Parting Glass sung by The Wailin Jennys.

http://www.4shared.com/mp3/Kn_EWwbu/The_Wailin_Jennys_-_The_Partin.html

Good night and joy be with you all.

The Case of the Missing Mrs. Bunny

Mr. Bunny woke up one morning to find Mrs. Bunny was missing.  How did he know she had not simply gone for an early jog?  Because if he doesn't find Mrs. Bunny sitting in her favorite chair, scarfing down cinnamon rolls and waving everyone away with her machete until she's had her nineteenth cup of coffee, he knows evil forces have been at play.  Also, she does not jog.
"Gosh,"  said Mr. B.  "I'd better find and rescue her.  Right after I've had a nap and a snack."
Mr. Bunny liked a post wake-up nap.  Waking up always sapped his energy.
After he had had his nap and snack, he had chores to do.  The north forty needed mowing.  Mr. Bunny had a new tractor and even better a new engineer's cap.  He had never had one but had always wanted one. He felt it gave him a look of quiet authority.  "All aboard,"  he said to no one in particular.  He was very busy for the rest of the day.
Meanwhile, it turned out that Mrs. Bunny had gone off to join Cirque de Bunnet.  She had always wanted to go up a thousand feet and twirl by her ears.  As it turned out, it made her dizzy and nauseous and like many things in life was not as much fun as she thought it would be.
Mr. Bunny planned to definitely look for Mrs. Bunny that evening after he went to see Cirque de Bunnet.  After all, the tickets cost SIXTY BUCKS!  And Mrs. Bunny was apparently dead set on wasting hers.  She is a wasteful rabbit, he clucked to himself.
Mr. Bunny enjoyed the show immensely until he found himself covered in vomit.  A spinning bunny had upchucked down from a great height.  Looking up he saw that it was Mrs. Bunny herself.
"You did that on purpose,"  he said.
"I might have, if I'd thought about it,"  she said as he led her home.  "Why did you not come looking for me?"
"The north forty,"  said Mr. Bunny in that shorthand of long-married couples.
"Ah,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "How was the engineer's cap?"
"I think I can say I cut a dashing engineerlike figure,"  said Mr. Bunny with dignity.  "Everyone boarded and deboarded exactly as I commanded."
"Who is everybody?"  asked Mrs. Bunny.
"Never mind,"  said Mr. Bunny hastily.  "The trains ran on time and that is the important thing."
"You would make a good Mussolini,"  said Mrs. Bunny.
"I don't think you mean that as a compliment,"  said Mr. Bunny.
"You are right,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Is there any carrot cake left?"
"Just enough for two,"  said Mr. Bunny and they hopped home to finish it.

Mr. Bunny is perturbed.
Mrs. Bunny has announced that she wishes to attend the superhero convention at Rabbitville's brand new conference centre.
"In general,"  she said, "we hat clubbers plan to boycott the centre.  It is development on a scale that is in direct contradiction to the city plan."
"But you plan to attend this time?"  said Mr. Bunny.  He had shut his eyes when she announced this.  He often felt a sudden sharp pain over his temples when Mrs. Bunny began speaking of "plans."
"YES, BECAUSE IT IS SO VERY COOL AND I GET TO WEAR MY CAPE!  AND MY GOGGLES!"
"I believe superheroes wears capes and masks.  Not goggles,"  said Mr. Bunny.
"What about the ones who swim in chlorinated pools?"  asked Mrs. Bunny.
"You have me there,"  said Mr. Bunny.
Then Mrs. Bunny ran upstairs and donned her superhero apparel.  She planned to wear it around the house for the rest of the day.  And in the garden.
"Maybe I shall attend with you,"  said Mr. Bunny who was bored.
"No,"  said Mrs. Bunny thoughtfully.  "You are only a mediocre hero.  They don't have a convention for you yet."  Then she swept out.
Mrs. Bunny could be so deflating.

The Salt Talk

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny pride themselves on having children with many sterling qualities but sane is not one of them.
Case in point:  yesterday little Willow Bunny called to say that she had had a trying day.  She had decided, she reported to Mrs. Bunny, that being tired and feeling odd, she had too much salt in her body.  And the more she thought about it, the more panicked she became.  That was clearly the problem!  Her body was redolent, teeming with salt.  So she crawled into the bedroom (this part she never explained) and drank several glasses of water and then took a bath.
"Were you trying to soak the salt out of your skin?"  asked Mrs. Bunny who doing her best to be attentive and respectful but torn between wanting to laugh and being concerned that another one of the baby bunnies had lost it and would require placement.
"I don't know," said Willow sadly.  "I only thought it would help."
"And did it?"  asked Mrs. Bunny.
"Well,  I'm still here,"  replied Willow.
"That is a blessing,"  said Mrs. Bunny and they then went on to talk of other things.

Ah, spring has come to Vancouver Island.  Mrs. Bunny was hopping along the beautiful rocky coast, which she likes to do for a couple of hours every morning.  She was picking wildflowers when suddenly she heard whoosh.  Whoooooosh.  "Oh my,"  she said.  "That sounds like whales."  And then,  having spent so many hours of her life so far being thus fooled, looked around for the blowhole where the ocean might be shooting up making whale whooshing imitative noises. She spied instead a whale!  An orca!
"Oh my God!  Oh my God!  Oh my God!"  she cried for she tends to lose her mind at such moments.  "There it is!"
And she pointed.
Of course there was no one else there to be so instructed, but somehow Mrs. Bunny feels that at such moments everyone is there.  In her heart, you were too.

A Terrible Thing to Happen to  All That Cheese

Mrs. Bunny's hat clubbers had their weekly potluck last night.  Mrs. Bunny wanted to make something special but something which the hat clubbers would still eat.  She happened on a recipe for mac and cheese with crab.  She had noticed that of late a lot of people seemed to be putting lobster in their mac and cheese but being on the west coast she found crab, although expensive, more available.  So, looking away from the price tag, she bought a pound.  Also four kinds of fancy cheese and shallots.  Shallots, I ask you!  Then she spent an hour putzing about the kitchen with it.  Finally that evening, feeling virtuous, she carted it to the potluck.  Mrs. Ruskeebunny was there with her famous jello sour cream mold.
"This is sure to be the best dish tonight,"  said Mrs. Ruskeebunny who valued honesty above modesty, or, as Mrs. Bunny thought to herself, good common sense.
"This is not a contest,"  said Mrs. Bunny putting her dish on the table with the rest but privately thinking, "I WIN!  I WIN!  I WIN!"
That is until later that evening when she bit into it.  It tasted exactly like tuna noodle casserole.  And not a particularly good version.  She is sure there is a lesson in here for everyone but frankly, she doesn't care.  I have not been put on this earth to teach anybody anything, she thought sourly, watching Mrs. Ruskeebunny's jello sour cream mold disappear while half her casserole remained stiffening in its dish. I have not been put on this earth to teach anyone anything or apparently to make crab mac and cheese.
When she got home Mr. Bunny asked her how everyone had liked the crabby mac and cheese as he called it.
"Shut up,"  said Mrs. Bunny and went to bed.
Some days are like that.  Even in Rabbitville.

Oh!  Mrs. Bunny is so excited!  Not only has she been rendered in gum paste but Listening Library has asked her to read and record her new book (coming out in spring 2014) titled Lord and Lady Bunny - Almost Royalty!
Mrs. Bunny is madly doing her voice exercises.  One's voice cannot be too squeaky and high-pitched, that is her opinion.  Mr. Bunny has asked to record all his own bits but Mrs. Bunny has assured him that he has had quite enough excitement, finally getting his name on the cover.  He must be content.
Thanks again to all of you for your  letters.  To the many who asked if Mrs. Bunny knows a good carrot cake recipe, the answer is yes.

Thank you to all of you who have emailed Mrs. Bunny, guessing what medium Mrs. Bunny chose to be sculpted in.  To those who guessed gum paste - correctomundo!  There is a lovely photo of Mr. and Mrs. Bunny in gum paste atop a cake on the translator, Polly Horvath's, web site.  The artist who works so daringly in paste of the gum is Dan Chau.  He was working from the very brilliant Sophie Blackall's renditions of Mr. and Mrs. Bunny.  Mrs. Bunny thinks Ms Blackall does a lovely job of drawing them.  Although Mrs. Bunny likes to point out the pencil always adds ten pounds.  Mr. Bunny says, yeah, Sophie's okay but for some reason she always draws Mr. Bunny way too SHORT.  He is clearly a whole head taller than Mrs. Bunny so what gives?  "Yes, dear,"  says Mrs. Bunny, checking the top of his head for fleas.  She is not saying he has any, just that she is ever-vigilant.
"Bah,"  says Mr. Bunny.  "Double bah!"
He is not in the best of moods.  Poor Mr. Bunny just got back from auditioning for Dancing with the Cars.  A lovely new reality show where stars of stage and screen  of whom very few people have heard, cha cha with their Porsches.  Mr. Bunny had hoped his Smart Car would be up to the challenge but they lost out to a marmot and his Audi.  Mr. Bunny has taken this as a sign that the world is coming to an end and has gone to live in the basement.  Mrs. Bunny, as soon as she is finished posting this blog, will attempt to lure him up with carrot cake and the world will return to normal.

What a wonderful April morning it is here at our hutch.  Mrs. Bunny was hopping about the garden when her daughter, Lillia, who was home visiting from Australia, suggested to Mrs. Bunny that she write a blog.
"Oh," said Mrs. Bunny, blushing modestly.  "Who would want to read my every thought and keep up on my every activity?"
"Perhaps you are right," said Lillia.
"Why, everyone!" amended Mrs. Bunny swiftly.
So Lillia, wise in the ways of the modern world, set Mrs. Bunny up on her computer and then hopped back to Australia, waving her hankie behind her.  Mrs. Bunny, busy composing, barely noticed.  She is a wonderful mother but has great powers of focus and concentration when called for.  "Don't forget to write,"  she may have mumbled in Lillia's fleeing direction and that precipitated a whole new reason to have anxiety attacks.
"What,"  she asked herself, "can I possibly write about?"
She  hopped into the garden where Mr. Bunny was busy striking poses.  Mrs. Treaclebunny from across the street had started a sculpting garden on her back forty and was busy doing Mr. Bunny's likeness in everything from marble to boxwood.
"Ah,"  said Mr. Bunny as he saw Mrs. Bunny approach,  "what do you think?  Am I more striking in bronze or driftwood?"
"Mr. Bunny,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Did I not ask you to wait to be immortalized until Mrs. Bunny was done with her blog entry?  No statue of Mr. Bunny is really complete without his bunny pal sculpted by his side."
"Feh,"  said Mr. Bunny.
"Feh,"  said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
Mrs. Bunny was so offended she did not reply but clapped a hat on her head and hopped immediately into Rabbitville where she found the perfect medium for a statue of herself.  In the end, she included Mr. Bunny.  But only because she is a much better rabbit than he.

To find out the medium that Mrs. Bunny chose, stay tuned for Mrs. Bunny's next post.