Marmalade knew it was going to be a chilly night. Possibly minus 3.7832 Celcius like that night in 2002 when as a youngster he had spent the night trying to dig his way out of the hutch. It wasn’t until first light that he realised chewing would have been the better option, but by then, the arrival of breakfast had interrupted his strategising. He never quite got round to returning to this particular idea, come to think of it.
It was full moon, and at a mere 63 million miles away, Mars was putting in a rare appearance. Marmalade shifted in the moonlight. Tonight, he was prepared for the night ahead. At first he wondered whether modern technology had anything to offer at all to an experienced veteran like himself. Then, curious as he would be to his dying day, he investigated. It was round and flat like a food bowl, only completely different. Covered in what seemed some kind of short fur, it smelled faintly of rabbit. It gave off a steady warmth which lent a strange, but not unpleasant cosiness to the hutch.
He could hear Coffee move around in her hutch next door. Marmalade wondered if she too had been gazing at the moon. He made another trip to the food bowl. His belly full, he returned to the strange, yet familiar thing. It had not moved. It seemed harmless. He approached it. It did not respond. He sat on it, and felt the warmth spread through his tired limbs. He settled down in a comfortable position. Not bad, really. His mind wandered off, to the moon, to Mars, to the hutch next door.
And then, breakfast.
The Bunnington Post 