The Trouble With Ted…

This week Chris questions the point of swimming, and baths

One of my favourite ever TV comedy sketches involved a fairly dense character played by Paul Whitehouse telling Harry Enfield something along the lines of… “I went swimming last night.”

“Really?” answered Harry. “Good, was it?”

“No, it was just a big hole full of water! I got totally bloody soaked!”

This complete misunderstanding of the whole point of swimming very much applied to my rabbit Ted’s bathtimes during lockdown.

OK, rabbits aren’t really known for being great lovers of soaking in the bath, singing along to Radio 2 as they scrub behind their giant ears, but there was a very good reason he had to sometimes become semi-aquatic. Due to Ted being a rabbit who doesn’t much like the concept of exercise in any form, he tends to put on a bit of weight now and then. While this uncomplimentary description also very much applies to his owner, I at least still retain the ability to wash after I’ve pulled the rip-cord*.

Ted does try to have a wash, but generally gets stuck on his backside – literally stuck on his backside – as he tries to manoeuvre himself into a rear-end washing position. He gets his legs stuck over the top of his head, topples over in a bunched-up roll, and ends up upside down against the side of the cage with his head stuck under his legs. As you do.

So, in non-lockdown times, Ted has regular trips to the vet, where a long-suffering nurse gives him a thorough clean up and he comes back fresh as a daisy, no doubt to his live-inpartner Billie’s relief. However, during lockdown, scrubbing a rabbit’s backside was not seen as an essential service, however Billie might disagree. So, it was down to us – well, me – to give him a bath.

Whereas a slightly more “aware” rabbit might have eventually worked out what was happening whenever I approached holding a towel and a carrot, Ted never did, so it was always easy transferring him to the bath, Ted nibbling on his carrot throughout the journey. He’d continue munching as he was lowered into the warm water, and it was only as it lapped around his midriff that he’d suddenly sit bolt upright and realise there was a problem. At this point all hell would break loose.

Rabbits’ huge back feet have quite some kick in them, something I fully appreciated when Ted lurched forward, head down, and began back-splashing huge quantities of water straight into my face, while seemingly totally unaware that holding his own head underwater meant he couldn’t breathe. This meant that every bath turned into me rescuing Ted from drowning while he tried to drown me.

So there you have it; baths are pointless – you just get totally bloody soaked.

* Pulled the rip-cord is how a certain uncomplimentary friend of mine – Liisa with two eyes and two i’s, mentioned here before – once described my habit of sudden weight gain, as in pulling the rip cord on a parachute… nice!

I’d rescue Ted from drowning while he tried to drown me

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