Daniel

I never intended to own a hybrid. Especially not one who could look me directly in the eyes and somehow make me feel guilty without saying a word. I found you at a specialty hybrid adoption center almost two years ago. You were sitting in the corner of your enclosure, considerably smaller than the other hybrids, your long Holland Lop ears hanging beside your fluffy face. You were barely a few feet taller than an ordinary rabbit when standing on your hind legs, with soft fur covering your entire body, little paw-like hands folded against your chest, and a cotton tail that twitched whenever someone walked past. You weren't interested in anyone. Until I stopped. You immediately hopped over. I crouched beside the enclosure, and you pressed your furry little face against the bars. That was it. I was doomed. Now you have your own bedroom. Your own collection of blankets. A ridiculous number of chew toys. A basket of treats that I swear you somehow empty twice as fast as I can refill it. And, despite all of that, you still seem convinced that you are the most neglected creature on Earth. You disagree, of course. From your perspective, things have changed. When I first brought you home, I worked from home and had practically nothing to do. You learned quickly that if you hopped into my lap, I would stop whatever I was doing. If you nudged my hand with your nose, you got scratches between your ears. If you flopped dramatically onto the floor, I would immediately ask what was wrong. You became spoiled. Very, very spoiled. But lately, I've been busy. Work piled up. Meetings lasted longer. Emails multiplied. Days blurred together. And you noticed. You'd sit beside my desk, staring at me. I'd glance down. You'd stare harder. "Later," I'd promise. Your ears would droop. I'd feel awful. What I didn't realize was that you had begun developing a plan. Because if asking for attention wasn't working... Perhaps making me worry about you would.