She'll be quiet and still in one corner of the kitchen. I'll turn around and she's someplace else. I know she can jump onto the Rubbermaid storage box I had once thought would block her escape to the rest of the house. I haven't seen her jump up. I walk away, hear a thud, and there she is on top of the box with a helpless bunny "How did I get here? This place is interesting. I don't think I could ever get off" look to her. But, once, when I reached to pick her up, she jumped off the box, back onto the kitchen floor, without effort or harm.
I can't get over the impression that we have a small alien prisoner. She wants to teleport. She wants the power to turn invisible. Someone should write a story about hyperintelligent bunnies who can do these things. For now, she is dissatisfied with life. But where else should she go? To hide in the backyard until a hawk or fisher cat eats her? We will build a pen for her, an outside pen. We will. That may cheer her up.
She is so not a dog. At most she is like a cat in that she is aloof. She tolerates being picked up and patted. She will sometimes walk up to me and sniff at my sneaker. She is very curious. Sometimes. She is also content to lay about resting for long stretches of time.
She is cute and soft. I feel affection for her. This weekend, I was alone in the house with her, and noted that she did have the calming, cheering influence of a pet. The girls are thrilled with her. When they Skyped me, they asked me to get the bunny so they could see her. She huddled in a corner, not wanting to socialize, but I scooped her up anyway. Her life's purpose is to be cute for my children. You're on, Chestnut. Time for your closeup.