Hello. It's Belinda.
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I finally decided what to get Abigail. Since I don’t have any money I'm making it myself. It’s the biggest project I’ve ever taken on.
The thing is, I'm having a hard time concentrating with all the "drama" here at home. Meaning the English.
I haven’t mentioned him for months and that’s on purpose. I don’t like to write about his nonsense in my blog. It’s not professional.
If you’re wondering if he's still down here on the bottom level, the answer is yes. He has an enormous exercise pen across the room. Right beside Little Fang's pen.
He spends a few hours a day lying against the side with his legs stretched out, staring at her. I guess in his mind he’s “wooing” her. None of my business.
The rest of the time he sits on top of his hideout castle.
He looks down at me like some kind of confused bird. I just turn my back and focus on my work. Some of us have a job.
You would think he would be on his best behavior right now, what with Christmas right around the corner.
Instead he's been worse than ever. Take what happened yesterday morning for example.
My mistake was asking Little Fang for help with Abigail's gift. I was trying to work out a certain “concept" in my mind. It wasn’t going the way I hoped so in a moment of weakness I asked for her opinion.
I guess you-know-who heard us. Once I was done talking to Little Fang, I returned to my spot under the utility sink. And that's when the English started grilling her.
"What is she working on?"
"Something for that girl in California."
"What girl?"
"Abigail. She writes chapters."
I felt my ears get hot. I don’t want them to talk about Abigail.
They were silent for a moment.
"I can help you with your project."
Now he was talking to me.
"I know what writers like."
I ignored him .
"I know because I'm a writer."
Oh brother.
"Writing is easy."
That's when I snapped.
I spun and showed him my front paws. Rabbits know what I'm talking about.
You don't know anything about writing, I said.
"I write every day," he said. He looked down his nose at me.
Fine, I told him. Then go inside your hideout and write a letter to Santa.
Then he said it.
"Santa Claus isn't real."
Oh no.
I glanced toward Little Fang. She was frozen in place, staring up at him. Her eyes were round as buttons.
She turned and walked into her sleeping box. She didn’t come out until dinner time.
I don’t know why the English is so “obtuse.“
You would think with all their giggling and whispering all these months, he would know Little Fang is "in her own world."
There’s no reason to break her heart about Santa.
Well I have to get back to work on Abigail’s gift. I know I shouldn’t gossip about home life but now you see the kind of pressure I’m under.
The holidays are stressful for everyone. I hope your "prep" is going well so far.
“Take a breath.”
Sincerely,
Belinda
Spokesrabbit, Small Pet Select
Belinda@smallpetselect.com
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