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Limericks, Poems and Stories
About Pets

All limericks, poems and stories
written by Betty Ann Cassano unless otherwise noted.


Up-dated August 19, 1996

~ Limericks about Tiny R, House Bunny ~

~ Sambo, the People-Watching Cat, and the Silver Flash ~

~ Brownie and the Baby Bird ~


Links to Other Sites


Tiny R

Tiny R is a black, neutered male, Mini-Lop bunny who lives with us. He is a House Rabbit.

Tiny R is an extremely intelligent and alert little fellow and is curious about absolutely everything. I have already documented some of Tiny R's stories on the internet. In fact, he has had his own page for several months now. If you are interested, a link can be found at the bottom of this page.

Tiny R is a very charming companion as long as you understand, and never, ever forget, that he is a RABBIT!! We have learned to accept the fact that Tiny R is not a dog. We watch him like a hawk whenever he is out to romp and play. That way he is kept safe from danger and our possessions are not full of chew marks!

Well, maybe just a few chew marks. Did I mention he's sneaky and fast?

August 1996


Here are a few observations about Tiny R in limerick form:

Tiny R is a one-of-a-kind.
A rabbit like him you won't find.
We've become steadfast chums.
When he's happy, he hums.
His demeanor is sweetly inclined.



Chewing on cords is a habit
Enjoyed by our sneaky House Rabbit.
He thinks it's great fun
When we race with our bun
To get there before he can grabbit.

Tiny R is our cord-chomper's name.
Chewing cords is his fav-or-ite game.
Power, printer or phone,
He won't leave them alone.
Our poor "com" center's just not the same.


Rabbits like to do just as they please
But it's easy to make a bun "Freeze!!!".
When you've tired of his game,
With a squirt gun take aim
And just give it a good, solid squeeze.

That is one way to make your bun learn
That your "NO!!" simply cannot be spurned.
With a look of surprise
His acts he'll revise
After making a 180 degree turn.



Pardon me if my thoughts cause offense,
But some bun owners seem rather dense.
To let your bun roam?
Chewing up your whole home?
It simply defies commonsense.



Tiny R finds it hard to ignore
The mysteries behind a closed door.
He pushes and nudges
And if the door budges
He slips in and starts to explore
.


A putter can do more than putt
When applied to my Tiny R's butt.
When R's under the bed,
And I nudge him ahead.
His eviction is open and shut.

The putter extends reach of my paw,
And becomes my " long arm of the law ".
When R's tail touches metal,
He's ready to settle.
He surrenders, but it's really a draw.



If "R's" digging continues unchecked,
He'll soon have my whole carpet wrecked.
So I chose to install,
Baby gate, wall to wall,
My carpet to serve and protect.

This action to curtail and suppress
My bun's digging was not a success.
He knew what to do;
He chewed a hole through.
And what he did next, you can guess!


New: August 11, 1996

There once was a rabbit named "R"
Who wished he could have a small car.
He could drive it to town
And start asking around,
"Do you know of a good salad bar?"

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Sambo, the People-Watching Cat, and the Silver Flash

I am reminded of one special cat. Actually he was the first cat we ever had and the only cat we got on purpose. We got him as a kitten and named him Sambo. He was a short-haired black cat and quickly adapted to our family. Sambo was never intimidated by our two fox terriers and they simply ignored him.

Sambo was an "outside" cat and that suited him fine. He always showed a lot of interest in everything that went on around the yard and enjoyed following us around when we were outside.

And Sambo had a fascination for shiny objects. My baton, for instance.

When I was in high school back in the 1950's, almost all the girls in my small town had batons. Learning how to twirl a baton was just something that we did for fun. By the time a girl got into 7th grade, she had either received a baton as a gift from her folks or, if money was real tight, (and it often was) she improvised.

A girl could usually find an old broom around the house. Then all she had to do was ask her dad to cut off a piece to match the length from her arm pit to finger tips. The cut-to-fit broomstick baton wasn't the best but it filled the gap until she got old enough to babysit and earn money to buy a real one. You could buy a very nice baton for around $5. But, of course, babysitting wages were only 25¢ or 35¢ an hour and that included doing light housework, too.

We even brought our batons and broomsticks to school and had informal baton twirling classes at noon recess. The eighth grade girls helped those of who were just beginning. And we all had a lot of fun.

Anyway, getting back to Sambo, the Cat . . . . .

One sunny morning I was outside twirling my baton. My favorite place to practice was near the kitchen because there was a huge plate glass window that made a perfect mirror when the sun was just right. I used that plate glass window to see how I looked, similar to the way ballet dancers practice in front of a mirror.

That particular day Sambo had settled down nearby to watch. He was definitely there on purpose to check out the action. When you are being watched by a cat, there isn't any doubt about it.

I was feeling good. My baton was spinning like the spokes of a bike. The reflection in the window was very impressive. I even amazed myself at the height of my throws. And even more amazed when I was able to stick my hand into the middle of that spinning flash of silver and catch it each time.

Even Sambo seemed impressed. He was stretched out on the lawn in one of those "alert but relaxed" cat poses. He watched the baton go up and he watched it come down. Over and over again. Only his head moved as he followed the baton with his eyes. He seemed almost hypnotised by the rhythm and sparkle of the spinning object. Then it happened!

I missed a throw completely. I don't know what went wrong but it happened fast. The large rubber knob on the end of my baton bounced toward the tree where Sambo was lounging and smacked him square on the head.

At first we were both stunned. And then Sambo went into action. All I could do was watch. It was a cinch I wasn't going to be able to catch him.

Sambo let out a screech that must have been heard all over the neighborhood. Throaty and piercing all at the same time. Then he started running in circles. His mouth was contorted into a grimace I have seen only in monster movies. It was a horrible, horrible sight!

I knew I had killed him. He was going to die. Then Sambo sped off in the direction of the wash house. But from the speed he was traveling, I knew he didn't have any plans of stopping there.

In my mind I knew what was going to happen. I had heard that animals that were old, or sick, or injured, always went off somewhere to die. I knew that Sambo must have sustained a massive head injury. There wasn't any way he could possibly survive such an insult to his poor little brain. He was definitely a gonner. And I felt absolutely miserable.

Imagine my surprise when Sambo reappeared a few hours later. He was moving along quietly and stealthily. His head swinging back and forth, carefully scouting out every part of the yard as he slowly made his way toward the kitchen door. He didn't seem injured but his whole demeanor was different. He was not the trusting, laid-back cat he used to be.

But it was almost dinner time and Sambo wasn't a cat that missed his dinner without a good cause.

At first I thought Sambo would hate me for causing him so much pain. I gradually realized that he held no grudge. He apparently hadn't the slightest idea of what had happened to him and didn't connect me to it anyway.

If Sambo could have talked I think he may have said, "It just came out of the blue! I don't really know what hit me! But I'm going to keep my eyes wide open from now on so if it comes back, I can run like heck!"

In the days that followed, whenever I went outside to practice my baton twirling, Sambo still came with me and took up a position to watch. But it was always back. Wa-a-a-a-a-y back!!

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Brownie and the Baby Bird


Our dogs always seem to catch onto the English language. They may not understand all of it but they understand enough to make situations kind of eerie sometimes.

Maybe it's because we talk to our dogs. Not just the baby-talk stuff. Real conversations. After a while, most of our dogs recognize quite a few basic words, phrases and voice inflections. And they certainly become good at reading body language. For instance, I remember the time Brownie, our fox terrier, helped me find a baby bird.

It was summer and, as usual, a pair of robins built their nest in one of our trees. Also, as usual, one of the baby birds tumbled out of the nest. The difference was, this time I found the baby bird before the cats did.

The mother and father robins had been making a terrible racket. Then, because of their strange, dive-bombing behavior, I noticed the baby bird huddled on the ground.

The pair of adult robins were frantic in their efforts to coax the baby bird back into the nest. But the poor little fellow was just a few days old and didn't have enough feathers to look fluffy, let alone fly. And with six or seven cats patroling the yard, the baby robin was definitely doomed without some sort of intervention.

From the beginning, the odds didn't look good. I knew nothing about being a bird mama. And I didn't know anyone else who might. But I couldn't just leave the defenseless little thing for the cats to chew up. So I made a nest for the baby bird in the bottom of a large sand pail and put him on the screened porch where he would be safe.

For the next couple of days I tried to take care of the baby bird. I dug up worms and cut them (ugh!) into tiny bite-sized pieces and fed them to him with tweezers. I could hear his parents chirping and calling to him through the screen. And much to my surprise, the little guy didn't die.

Then it came to me. The parent birds hadn't given up on him. So I decided to take the sand pail outside to see if the parent birds would come down to him.

I carefully placed the pail on a fence post and made sure it wouldn't tip over if a big bird perched on the rim. Then I retired to the screened porch to watch.

Almost immediately the parent robins flew down. Then the food brigade got underway. Dozens of times each day the adult robins made food deliveries and the baby bird began to thrive.

Each morning I took him out in his sand pail and got him ready for the day. The pail was tall enough and slippery enough to keep him from falling out. I kept track of the sun and made sure to keep the pail in the shade.

When evening came, I returned the bird to the safety of the screened porch. And in the morning the parent birds would begin their squawking to get me to bring their baby outside to them. It didn't seem like a strange situation at the time. We simply worked together. And all the while, the little bird got stronger and grew a nice crop of baby feathers.

Making a "pet" out of the baby robin never entered my mind. The whole focus was to keep him safe and give him a chance to rejoin his family. And I got great pleasure from watching him get closer and closer to that goal.

Baby birds grow surprisingly fast. And it wasn't too long before little bird was beginning to flap his wings and moving around pretty well. Occasionally he flapped his way to the rim of the pail and exercised his wings vigorously before either hopping or falling back into the soft nest at the bottom.

Then the day came that I had dreaded. The mother and father robins were squawking furiously. I found the pail empty. I knew little bird wasn't ready to fly yet. And with all the cats around, I was pretty sure of what had happened.

Brownie, our fox terrier, was with me. He always liked to be where the action was and often followed me around when I was taking care of the baby bird. I must have had tears in my voice because Brownie focused his attention on me as if trying to figure out what was wrong.

All I could think to say was, "Find the bird, Brownie". Immediately he came to attention and started sniffing along the grass and the flower border in the yard. I knew it was in vain but Brownie was trying so hard to find whatever it was I had lost.

Then Brownie stopped. He turned and looked up at me as if to say, "Come here. Is this what you're looking for?" Then he poked his nose under the leaves and moved them aside. There sat the baby robin, calm and unhurt.

No one will ever be able to convince me that Brownie didn't know exactly what he was doing. He had been with me every day when I took the bird back and forth. He knew it was important to me. And even when he had a chance to let his natural canine instincts take over, he did not make any effort to hurt the little robin.

Well, the baby robin obviously was almost ready to join his family. He remained a few more days. Each day his wings became stronger and stronger. And finally the pail was empty.

But I knew that it was all right this time. Because this time the parent birds were not there in the trees squawking with anxiety. All the birds were on their way to wherever robins go in the summer. And I am thoroughly convinced that our little robin went with them.

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Links

Tiny R - The Adventures of a Mini-Lop House Rabbit

Political Limericks and Poems - Election Year 1996 and the Aftermath. Strictly Conservative Point of View

Nursing and Medical Limericks and Poems

House Rabbit Society - Beautiful site with lots of rabbit information. Includes general care, behavior, health concerns, organizations, adoptions and even links to House Rabbits with their own web pages!


E-mail address: lightind@snowcrest.net
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Page posted August 6, 1996

Copyright 1996 & 1997 - Betty Ann Cassano
All Rights Reserved