📅 Tuesday, 25 August 2026 · No. 147

What If She Was Not Here to Eat the Herbs?

🥬 Feeding Notes · ✎ 5 min · by Azmi in Meknes

Azmi's note My personal log from Meknes, not vet advice. Just what I did and saw tonight.

I am Azmi, writing from my kitchen in Meknes, and today I am posting a job advertisement for the most important position in this house. Wanted: one small herbivore to eat all the herbs and lettuce before they overflow the counters. Applicants must be cute, must be helpful, and must possess a precious face. Molly applied years ago, got the job on the spot, and has held it ever since with total dedication.

Her interview question came from her, not me. What would I do, she seemed to ask with her whole serious face, if she was not here to eat all the herbs and lettuce? I looked at the bundles on the counter, I looked at her, and I had no answer. It would literally overflow the house. Every shelf would sprout greens, every bowl would pile up, and I would be buried under fragrant leaves with nobody to blame but myself.

Position: Chief Herb Officer, permanent employment

The role is simple to describe and demanding to perform. The Chief Herb Officer reports for duty twice daily, inspects each delivery with a thorough sniff, and processes the greens with steady, professional chewing. Morning shift covers whatever I set out before work. Evening shift covers the lettuce course, served with ceremony on the good plate. Overtime is available whenever I buy too much, which is most weeks, honestly.

I am not a vet, so anything about fresh foods and daily menus I run past my vet in Meknes first before I change anything. What I describe here is just my own routine with Molly: small portions I have already discussed with my vet, introduced slowly, washed well, and watched closely. Her appetite does the vital work, but my vet sets the boundaries, and I stay inside them.

Duties and responsibilities

Duty one: herb control. Bunches arrive from the market looking modest and multiply on my counter the moment I turn around. Molly clocks in, selects the best leaves first, and works her way down with the focus of a professional. Duty two: lettuce management, nightly. She takes the outer leaves I set aside, crunches through them at her station by the rug, and returns for inspection to make sure nothing was missed.

Herb shifts: daily tasting and clearing, logged on the fridge door
Lettuce course: nightly serving, eaten at the rug station
Byproduct division: round droppings collected for the plant pots, a genuine bonus

Duty three is my favorite: fertilizer production. The house runs on her appetite and the plants run on the rest, as my original note says, and it is still true. I collect the dry round droppings, I mix them into the soil of my balcony pots, and the mint and parsley grow back thicker. It is a tidy little circle, and Molly sits at the center of it like a small director approving each stage.

Required qualifications

Qualified candidates must demonstrate a serious interest in greens, a reliable crunch, and the ability to look adorable while working. Experience with lettuce preferred. References from houseplants appreciated but not required. Molly exceeds every requirement. She arrives at the sound of the bag, she sorts leaves by some private ranking system I will never understand, and she finishes with her chin held high and her whiskers dusted green.

Her technique deserves a paragraph of its own. She anchors the leaf with one paw, takes a decisive first bite, and then settles into a rhythm, ears relaxed, eyes half closed. Stems are handled last, with extra chewing and a thoughtful pause. I have tried photographing the process a dozen times and every photo shows the same thing: total concentration, zero waste, and a plate that looks cleaner than when I washed it.

Her lettuce evenings remind me of the sessions I logged in my photo log of lettuce days and how I serve them, where I worked out the slow, small-portion rhythm that suits her best. Those evenings taught me to serve less than I think, to watch more than I serve, and to keep the camera ready because the first bite always makes the best picture.

Compensation and perks

Pay is issued in head rubs, prime floor space, and first choice of sitting spots. Benefits include a warm rug, a human trained to wash greens properly, and job security rated permanent. Performance reviews are glowing. Without her, herb chaos, I wrote in the original post, and with her, delicious order, and both halves still hold. The counters stay clear, the fridge stays honest, and the house smells faintly of fresh leaves instead of forgotten ones.

Afternoon shifts have their own special light, the kind that makes her fur glow while she works through a pile. Some of my favorite pictures of her come from those slow afternoons, much like the ones I collected in my afternoon photo log with dandelion greens. Different leaf, same employee, same careful crunch, and the same feeling that the house is running exactly as it should.

Final hiring decision

The position is filled, the contract is permanent, and there will be no further interviews. Molly remains my favorite little herbivore, doing vital work one leaf at a time, and the image I keep from her second shift says everything: a helper mid-task, focused, flour-dusted in green, earning her title. If the herbs ever pile up again, I know exactly who to call, and she knows exactly where the good plate lives.

So consider this both a job posting and a thank-you letter to the employee who already holds the role. The house is orderly, the plants are fed, the counters are clear, and the whole operation runs on schedule because one small rabbit takes her duties seriously. Employment permanent, performance outstanding, crunch audible from the next room. I would hire her again in a heartbeat, and the herbs would hardly touch the counter before she arrived.