Carnivorous Rabbits

We've just spent a whole night in a stationary railway carriage and we weren't even on a British train which are regularly held up for hours because an autumn leaf happened to fall onto the track, thus making safe operation impossible. No, we were at a place called Undarra where some fool has left a whole lot of train carriages lying around for the likes of my staff to sleep in when they get lost. There were lots of huge holes in the ground, obviously dug by giant prehistoric carnivorous rabbits, at least that is the most logical explanation, and yet the guides who took us down these holes tried to convince us all that they were formed by molten lather. I may only be a guinea pig, but I know full well that no matter how much lather you pour onto the ground it's not going to create bloody great tunnels twenty metres tall and thirty metres wide.

So anyway, Badger, myself, my male staff, his dad and his mad sister all went on a tour to view some of these tunnels. Only one tunnel was suitable for my male staff's dad who is lame in one leg where mad sister kicked him in the shin I think. It must have been a pretty good kick because he's had to use his wheelie-walker ever since I've known him. Either that or she kicks him in the shin every other day to ensure that he doesn't recover. This one particular tunnel had a special moving toilet that descends down the side of the staircase into the dark depths of the prehistoric rabbit hole. I guess they use the moving toilet because it's very steep and some people might lose control of their bowels with fright as they go down. I'm glad my male staff's dad didn't have that issue because they forgot to remove his trousers. Badger and I rode on his lap, so the toilet was a waste of time because by the time we got to the bottom his trousers were covered in bush chocolate anyway.

                                                 My male staff's dad on the moving toilet.              


Once we were down in the tunnel Badger and I scampered off to explore, leaving the humans behind to be fed a crock of bush chocolate by the guide about the tunnels being created by lather.  As we ventured deeper into the hole the light grew dimmer and the human voices became fainter. We ignored my male staff's cries of "Billy! Badger! Where are you?" because his voice hadn't yet reached the correct panicked, desperate tone. We both agreed that only when his voice had reached the required level of hysteria would we mosey on back, until then we'd continue to explore. From somewhere in the pitch darkness ahead we could hear a faint fluttering and an increasingly ominous squeaking. I knew exactly what this meant. BATS! Bats terrify me with their evil, beady little eyes, their leather wings and their tiny razor sharp teeth. It makes my fur stand on end just to think about it. Obviously the stupid humans with their torches and loud voices had disturbed them and they flew out from their roost in their thousands, fluttering overhead and speckling me with their tiny bits of bat bush chocolate. So I did what any big brave, heroic piggy would do - I turned and ran. I hadn't got very far when I saw half an eerie white face in front of me. A single malevolent eye peered at me from the half face. I stopped dead in my tracks. It could only be one thing - the legendary Phantom of Undarra. The pale half face drew closer, my legs grew weak and my bowels trembled, or was it the other way around? I can't remember, in any case I left a large pile of bush chocolate for the next visitors to slip on. Suddenly the half face opened it's mouth and I could smell the creature's foetid breath. Then it spoke to me. "Hi Billy," it said. "What's it worth for me not to tell your male staff that you ran squealing like a girl from a few mice with wings?" Badger! That damned visit to the stupid lather holes cost me a week's worth of basil.

My male staff, his dad and his mad sister in the prehistoric rabbit hole.

The next day was my male staff's mum and dad's wedding anniversary. The first since she joined her dogs at the Rainbow Bridge last February. My male staff and his mad sister bought him an anniversary present and a card to show that they remembered the day even though their dad is on his own now. We all sat in our motel room, Badger eating MY basil, the humans guzzling wine and me glaring at Badger.  Mad sister handed her dad the present and card and said "Happy anniversary Dad" and gave him a hug and squeezed his hand. Understandably this must have alarmed him because his eyes began to leak a bit, then mad sister's eyes started to leak too. Male staff just sat there looking about as sad as a guinea pig who's just been blackmailed out of a week's basil ration.

This morning I went with my male staff as he drove his dad and mad sister to the airport for their flight back to Britain. Male staff's poor old dad had the same constant bewildered expression as Badger the whole time he was here. I think he's missing my male staff's mum very much. He's eyes leaked a little as he said goodbye to my male staff, but I think that might have just been at the thought of having to spend the next twenty four hours sitting next to mad sister. My male staff watched them go, mad sister pushing their dad through passport control in his wheelchair, bumping in to several people and going so fast around one corner that male staff's dad almost tipped out as the wheelchair tilted at an alarming angle. My male staff picked me up, stroked me gently, smiled sadly at me and said "Come on Billy, time to go home."

BADGER'S FOOTNOTE
Hah! I'm keeping my foot on my basil ration so that "Big Girl's Blouse" Billy can't sneak up and steal it back. Anyway, I can smell him coming because he's still covered in bat bush chocolate.