Rebellious bunny

Jo only discovered it by accident. On any ordinary Tuesday, she would have been at work; only the mind-bending headache she woke with that morning kept her home.

Even with her eyes closed, Jo could tell the day's progress as the sun's light moved around the room. The house was quiet, but Jo could occasionally hear the noise as neighbours came and went - the school run, the postman delivering, life continuing.

Perhaps it was because she was lying, perfectly still in her bed, eyes closed, other senses heightened, that Jo heard the voice.

There was a voice IN HER HOUSE...

For a moment, Jo froze. Was there someone else in the house with her, and if so, who and why? And HOW? After a mild panic, rational Jo reasserted herself. Someone outside sounded very loud, or else it was something else - the radio, the answerphone machine, an Alexa getting chatty, whatever. Half the appliances in the house talked back at her these days - this was probably the fridge wanting a chat or the vacuum cleaner complaining it needed emptying,

It was time to investigate. Jo settled for opening one eye only (less painful than both) and swung her legs out of bed. Pulling on her robe, she went quietly down the stairs and into her sitting room. The quiet voice, mid-range, neither sounding particularly male nor female, was still speaking. Jo was sure now that she could hear it more closely; it was reciting poetry. What on earth? A kitchen appliance with an English Literature qualification?

Jo started towards the kitchen door, but as she passed it, she realised the voice was coming from the rabbit hutch. She stopped, bemused and slightly annoyed. This must be the work of her brother Dan. He must have hidden a speaker of some kind in Keatts hutch and was now playing a voice through it to wind her up. But hang on, how could he even know she was at home? Only her manager, whom Jo had phoned earlier, knew Jo was not at work; no one else knew, so no one could know it was worth pranking her now.

Stepping silently, Jo approached the rabbit hutch. Keatts, her handsome mid-brown bunny sat with his back to the door, uncharacteristically not eating (he seemed to spend most of his waking hours eating). And he was also talking: Well, reciting, actually. Unlike her waffle toaster, Jo did in fact have a literature qualification. In fact, she knew this particular poem - it was 'To Autumn', written by poet John Keatts (the one that starts 'Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness).

Chin on chest, Jo stood staring down at the reciting rabbit. Bizarrely, Jo could only focus on one thought: She'd named the rabbit Keatts; if she'd called him Shakespeare, would she now be listening to Hamlet? What is she'd called him Dylan - do rabbits sing? It was all too much.

Feeling foolish, Jo cleared her throat. The rabbit stopped its recitation and turned to face her. She'd swear the rabbit looked past her as if to see if she was alone, before speaking. In the same gender-neutral and accent-less voice, quietly but clearly, the rabbit said "Well, hello. That's awkward. I presumed I was alone."

For some seconds, Jo said nothing. Then, shaking her head over the fact that she was talking to a rabbit AND EXPECTING A REPLY, she said, tentatively "Um...you were talking?" She then quickly said again "You were TALKING", this time as a statement and not a question.

The rabbit looked at her calmly. "Well, yes. But only because I presumed myself to be alone. I was mainly keeping myself entertained until it was time for lettuce." The rabbit stopped speaking for a moment and then went on, hopefully, "Is it time for lettuce?"

Jo shook her head and said emphatically, "But YOU CAN TALK. In fact, you can recite poetry."

Keatts somehow managed a sheepish expression (a difficult trick for a rabbit) and said quietly, "Well, yes, I can, and I was, but only because I believed myself to be alone. You must understand, I am not a performing rabbit."

She had had enough. Reaching for her phone, Jo called her mother. She said"Come to my house. I have something to show you", before hanging up. A green tea for herself and some lettuce for the loquacious Leporidae, and she dashed off upstairs to dress before her mother arrived.

Jo dealt with the flurry of concerned questions and, after several attempts, managed to persuade her mother to come and stand in front of Keatts hutch.

To her credit, she tried everything. Bribery, cajoling, threats, entreaty, blackmail but all to no avail. The rabbit sat there, being an archetypal rabbit and saying nothing. He ate lettuce. A mildly hysterical Jo wondered if he was too well-mannered to talk with his mouth full.

In due course, Jo's bemused mother left, having extracted strict promises that her daughter would call her if she still not feeling better the next day.

Jo stood in front of the hutch, looking at her furry friend. The rabbit had both eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. "That," said Jo "was not very nice. I bet my mother £25 I could get you to say three words to her, but once she was here, you do the dumb act thing again. Three words, that's all you had to say!"

The rabbit opened one eye. Having checked they were alone, he gave a little shrug and said, "You lose." Closing his eye, he appeared to go back to sleep.

Jo never heard Keatts speak again, and she told no one else about her strange day. But she did leave the radio on in her sitting room when she went to work to give him some company. She could only hope she'd chosen a station he liked, but in any event, it was better than having to listen to the vacuum cleaner complain.