It won't surprise you to know...

the NW coast of Scotland gets a lot of rain.

This is a tale of a cotton-tail

called Rabs who was a victim

of a very sustained period of rain.

Walking up to the phone box,

 I saw a dead baby rabbit in the water swollen ditch,

beside which a tiny shivering

baby bro/sis was huddling.

I gently lifted the little mite up 

and scuttled home.

This is Rabs in a half pint 

Coronation mug

How to raise him was the next question?

I guessed he wasn't even weaned,

so I started the long process of

gently dribbling from my hand, tiny 

amounts of goats milk into his hungry mouth.

He against all odds survived,

better than that, he thrived.

A house rabbit who strangely

thought he was human.

Katie, the Westie, took to him; 

they were great pals playing hide and seek

around the sofa.

Rabs was potty trained in an evening.

I lined a cut down plastic container 

with newspaper, every time Rabs looked as

if he was about to produce poo of the currant kind,

I plonked him in the rabbit commode.

By the end of the night, he knew what was expected of him.

The next day I put the container under the sofa to

give him a degree of privacy,

even a rabbit needs a modicum of decorum.

He had the newspaper, so the job was a goodun.

He could take so long as he liked.

He quickly became part of the family,

even to the extent of jumping up onto the

arm of the chair and helping himself to

salad on the side of my plate.

On one occasion sitting writing a

letter in the armchair, he jumped up

and pinched the top off my pen.

The word flew off the page...

'You'll never believe why this has 

happened!' I wrote to my coz!'

Visitors who came to call,

would stop mid-sentence as they 

caught a fleeting glimpse of a grey

furry creature disappearing behind the chair.

'Was that a rat?' writ large in their eyes!

He would sit in the tiled surround of

the old thirties fireplace, stretched out

basking in the heat.

We made an ark for Rabs 

so that he could enjoy the garden.

Once a month I would drive the 110 miles

to Inverness for building supplies etc.

On one occasion I returned to

find him very badly injured quivering in the

covered area of his run.

His front leg looked as if it had been

broken and the skin on his tummy had been peeled back.

I can only think a weasel had attempted to get at him.

With careful nursing he survived.

He would sometimes be reluctant to come in,

who could blame him?

He would escape my clutches and run off.

Always allowing me to catch him.

Well that is until the last time...

Time to go!

The sad thing is, he didn't make it going alone,

he was found, dead under the bee hive.

The question this begs is,

 did I do the right thing?

Us humans think we know best...

I'm not so sure!

This was Minty, one of the pet lambs.

Life is tough being truly self-sufficient and yes 

we did eat him.  

On a happier note,

this is the croft in Achnacarnin

overlooking the bay of 

Culkein

 Rowan, the goat is sat on her favourite

rock watching the world go by.

Aaron, Katie and me

Aaron is wearing a hand spun jumper

made by me from beautifully soft 

Shetland wool.

These memories were deep 

in the old grey matter, long forgotten.

Until the lovely John Grey told us 

about Roland.

Thanks John.