Excuse me, excuse me – I have only JUST returned from the MOST sad wake of Hector Pidgewidge! Who knew that the Pidge clans would favor such a lengthy mourning celebration?
Friends, let me set the scene for you:
The brood all returned for this most somber occasion. In the ways of the old ones, the ladies all came attired in the finest lace and sumptuous silks. The gentlemen were, of course, outfitted with full top hat and monocle. I was rather under-dressed, adding to my otherness in this scenario (as the only rabbit in the room). H. Pidgewidge was laid out on bed of refuse, which the clan gently pecked and noshed on throughout the first day of mourning. Then, friends, some unkind soul brought out the ripest gutterwine EVER inflicted.
Gutterwine, you see, is a strange brew of fetid water and grain. Ol’ Pidge himself was quite the homebrewer, and this particular vintage was from 1841. You can only IMAGINE the stench. And the hangover.
Lady Jane Featherbottom
Thankfully, the clans had laid out the most sumptuous feast of fine Crudités, pheasants, and puddings, so a bunny was not without indulgences. And yes, yes, I MAY have delighted in a thimbleful of the awful gutterwine. Actually, things get a little fuzzy after the youngest daughter of the Featherbottom family, Lady Jane, began to refill my thimble at quite an Alarming rate. It’s quite possible that some manner of picadillo or indiscretion occurred, because I awoke quite bloated and unclothed on a country road halfway between the Pidgewidge manor and my cottage.
Perhaps a shower is in order…. ?
