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Piles and piles and strange humans

She's at it again! Mum's moving piles of stuff around; but this time, she's doing it inside - so, unlike yesterday, in the garden, she's probably not building bunny accommodation.

Now, I have been observing my human family for some time, and while there are, admittedly, certain aspects of my life that could quite honestly be described as a little repetitive - eat, sleep, eat, sniff out rabbits, eat, sleep, stroll about a bit, eat ... you get the picture - they are not a patch on the elaborate activities that happen here in the human world again and again and again. Like the endless pile shifting -

It starts with a basket (a satisfyingly crunchy, wicker one that I used to chew, but don't now that I'm all grown up) that gets filled, every day, with a pile of that colourful, movable outer skin that humans habitually wear (I guess they have no choice as their fur is so pathetic). When the pile builds up to mountainous proportions and threatens to topple the basket (which it does at unpredictable moments, often landing on top of me, because I'm usually lying at Mum's feet, keeping her company and trying to help - she calls it "unhelping" which I think is a little unkind, as I am only doing my best. And nudging the basket to make it empty itself sort of does the job for her) - well, then, she puts the "dirty" washing into a noisy box. I say "dirty washing" because that's what she calls it, although humans clearly need a lesson or two in what is dirty and what is not: the pile might be a bit niffy round the edges, but is never properly, roll-around-in-a-muddy-ditch dirty.

Later, Mum empties the "washing machine" and builds a wet pile, which gets put into a noisier box, that turns it into a dry pile.

Mum then spends ages flattening the dry pile and folding it into lots of little piles. This flattening process is long and very dangerous. It must be, because when I lie on Mum's feet under the flattening board, she stiffens and grips the heavy, hot thing firmly, before telling me to move. Which I do. I go and lie on one of the new, soft, warm and cushiony piles she has just made and stay there until she notices. Then I'm sent outside.

What a lot of fuss and bother and endless washing, drying and flattening. And such an obsession with moving piles of stuff around. Me, I have a cage to sleep in (carpeted, no piles), a garden (rabbit house piles, but none of my own making) and a run ... ah ... I do own a pile, actually! It's quite a comfortable pile (which I share with about five thousand, four hundred and seventy six earwigs at the moment); lots of old blankets, all piled up into a smelly, dirty, doggy (and earwiggy) nest. At least I don't move it around all the time - I just toss it and worry it a bit.

Now there's an idea: what would happen if I worried some of Mum's piles?



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