Future Neurologist Eats the Pages
Beware: she is going to become a neurologist and outsmart us all. I am Azmi, writing from Meknes, and the evidence sits in front of me as I type: a textbook with a scalloped edge where my girl sampled several pages. Eats the pages, gains the knowledges, that is her motto. Textbooks are snacks now, and resistance has been thoroughly chewed through. This diary entry is her academic file, kept with love and a watchful eye on everything she puts in her mouth.
Before the letters begin, one honest note from her owner. I am not a vet, and paper and books are not food. When she chews things she should not, I redirect her to hay and her usual chews, tidy the tempting objects away, and call my own vet if I am ever worried she swallowed something odd. Please do the same with your own vet rather than treating this funny story as guidance.
Letter one: to the Dean of Chewing
Dear Dean, I write to report that your newest student has completed her entrance exam. Subject: neuroscience textbook, chapter three. Method: careful tasting of the corner, followed by committed sampling of the margin. Result: several pages eaten, knowledge gained: infinite, at least by her own confident expression. She sat afterward among the shreds with ink on her whiskers and the posture of a scholar who has finished her thesis. I swept up the confetti, checked her mouth gently for stuck bits, and moved the book to the high shelf where it belongs.
Her study habits are consistent. She prefers quiet afternoons, good light, and an unsupervised textbook left within hopping distance. She reads with her teeth, annotates with her paws, and discards the pages she finds unconvincing onto the rug. I have learned to keep important papers in closed boxes and to offer her a tunnel toy when the scholarly urge strikes, usually before she settles on a bookshelf target. She loves the one I described in how I decorated the tunnel toy, and redirecting her there usually saves the library from further losses.
Letter two: to the Grants Office
Dear Grants Office, I request funding for the coming semester. Line one: endless hay, the staple that keeps a scholar grounded. Line two: fresh water, changed often, served in the heavy bowl she cannot flip. Line three: replacement chew toys, because the current ones have been peer-reviewed to destruction. Line four: mind-control treats budget, currently under review, pending good behavior around bookshelves. Compensation for the genius is paid in greens and head rubs, and frankly she has earned every leaf.
Her academic record so far is distinguished. Pages eaten: several. Naps taken on top of open books: countless. Times she has sat on my notes exactly when I needed them: every single time. She supervises my reading by pressing her chin onto the page I am trying to see, which I interpret as editorial feedback. When I move her gently aside, she returns within seconds with renewed academic interest, often dragging a fresh corner of blanket along as her research assistant. Persistence, I believe, is the mark of a great researcher.
Letter three: to the Career Office
Dear Career Office, you suggested the jobs board for rabbits, and I am pleased to report she has chosen her path. Future neurologist, specializing in why treats disappear when nobody is looking and how a nose boop lowers human stress. Her bedside manner is already excellent. When I am tired, she climbs beside me and presses her forehead to my hand. When I laugh, she binkies. Her clinical trials involve circling my feet at dinner time, and her published findings are written in tiny tooth marks along the cardboard castle wall.
Her softer side shows in the evenings, when the professor becomes a cuddle student. She nudges my hand for pets, melts under slow forehead strokes, and sometimes falls asleep with her chin on my wrist, breathing slow and deep. Those are the moments I treasure most, the ones I tried to capture in my head nudges and cuddles log. Genius by day, baby by night. The duality of the scholar.
Transcript of the semester
- Neuroscience textbook, chapter three: tasted, judged, partially archived on the rug
- Tunnel toy redirection: accepted with enthusiasm, chewed within approved limits
- Evening cuddle seminar: attended daily, honors earned, purring recorded
- Bookshelf boundaries: under negotiation, high shelves respected, low shelves tempting
Yes, I am scared of how smart she is, and yes, infinite treats for the genius, obviously. But the real lesson of this semester is simpler than any textbook. A curious rabbit is an engaged rabbit, and my job is to keep her curiosity pointed at things she may chew. Books go up high. Hay stays available. Toys rotate. Hands stay gentle. I check the rug each evening for stray shreds, keep her water fresh, and watch her mood the way a good supervisor watches a star student. Smartest bun in the house, employed full-time in research, grants paid in greens, supervisor hopelessly devoted. Semester ends with honors, and summer school starts tomorrow.
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