📅 Thursday, 6 August 2026 · No. 131

Guided Bun Yoga (Payment in Hay Accepted)

🌿 Daily Logs · ✎ 6 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 apartment in Meknes, and I have decided that my bunny is not a pet so much as a head chef. Last week she ran what I can only describe as a yoga class in my living room, and I took notes the way I would copy recipes from my mother. Long poses, deep stretches, zero corrections. She never adjusted my form once, which I choose to read as confidence in her teaching rather than indifference. I am the student who pulled something in his shoulder while she stayed folded like a warm loaf of bread. So here is my cookbook chapter from that evening, tested once in a small kitchen-living room with one expert and one struggling amateur.

Recipe One: Downward Loaf, Held Until Dinner

Every good cookbook starts with the simplest dish, and the downward loaf is exactly that. You will need one rug, one quiet room, and one rabbit who has already claimed the warmest spot. The method could not be shorter: she settles her paws underneath her body, tucks her chin, rounds her back, and stays there. I set a timer the first time because I am the kind of person who sets timers for rest. She stayed put for the whole stretch while I fidgeted, checked the clock, and finally sat down beside her to wait. The chef’s note I wrote in the margin says the loaf is done when the cook decides, not when the guest gets hungry. I have started applying this to my own evenings, though my version involves more sighing and less grace.

What I love about this recipe is that it asks nothing from you except patience. I used to think rest had to be earned with effort, that I needed a long walk or a finished chore list before I was allowed to lie still. She taught me otherwise in a single evening. She flopped into the loaf position ten minutes before dinner, completely calm, completely certain that food would come and that worry would change nothing. I sat on the floor with my back against the couch and tried to copy her breathing. My knees complained. My phone buzzed. I ignored it, which felt like a small victory. By the time I stood up to prepare her greens, my shoulders had dropped an inch. I am still a beginner at this dish, but I keep practicing, and my teacher keeps demonstrating without charging extra.

Recipe Two: Warrior Flop, Both Sides, Breathe

The second recipe is the dramatic one, the dish guests photograph. The warrior flop begins like any ordinary stretch and ends with a rabbit lying fully on her side, legs extended, eyes half closed, as if she has fainted from pure contentment. The first time I saw it, I gasped and leaned forward, and she opened one eye to check whether I was going to interrupt. I held still. She closed the eye again. Method: wait for the flop, do not touch, keep your breathing slow, and admire. My attempt at the same move produced a sound in my back that I will not describe here. She did not laugh, which I appreciate, because rabbits express judgment silently and she had already expressed enough that week.

I have read enough rabbit diaries online to know that other owners treasure this moment too, and comparing notes has become one of my favorite habits. My evening rest photos now live alongside my notes about her flops, and I recently looked back through my evening rest photos to see how her favorite flop spot has moved from the couch corner to the rug by the balcony door. The light is better there in the late afternoon, and she clearly has opinions about lighting. Watching her thunk over onto her side after a busy day of naps reminds me that comfort is a skill. She practices it daily. I take notes, I attempt the pose, I fail with enthusiasm, and the class continues without a syllabus.

The breathing part deserves its own paragraph because it is the only part I can actually perform. While she lies flopped, her sides move in a slow, even rhythm, and I have started matching my breath to hers when I sit nearby. Inhale for four counts, exhale for six, repeat until the dinner alarm rings. It sounds simple and it is simple, which is why I kept forgetting to do it before she modeled it. My apartment in Meknes gets noisy in the evening with traffic and neighbors, but that small patch of rug stays quiet. I should add one honest note here: I am just her human, not a vet or a fitness teacher, so if your rabbit stretches oddly or seems stiff, please ask your vet rather than copying my cookbook. My recipes are for laughter and calm evenings, not medical guidance.

Recipe Three: Payment in Hay, Served via Banana Express

No cookbook chapter is complete without dessert, and in this house dessert is hay with a thin slice of banana on top, delivered with ceremony. Her original class schedule listed payment options as HayPay and Banana Express, and I honor both. After the evening session, I refill the hay rack with fresh timothy, add the tiniest piece of banana as a tip, and place the bowl near her mat like room service. She inspects the delivery, eats the banana first because she has priorities, and then settles into the hay with the focus of a critic finishing a tasting menu. I sit nearby with my own tea and feel, absurdly, that I have paid a master exactly what she is owed.

The funny thing is that this payment system has improved my own routine. Because class happens most evenings now, I keep the living room tidier, I put my phone away earlier, and I even stretch my legs while I wait for the kettle. Her movement diary would show a calm instructor; mine would show a student slowly getting less stiff. I thought about this when I revisited my notes on her sunset zoomies, where she sprints like an athlete and then collapses like a philosopher. Yoga and zoomies look like opposites, but in her schedule they are simply courses in the same meal: effort, then rest, then a snack. I am learning to order my evenings the same way.

Advanced class is next week, same poses with longer naps, and I have already prepared the studio by washing the rug and moving the coffee table. Bring your own mat, she keeps hers: that rule was written on the first night and has never been appealed. If you ever visit Meknes and want to enroll, know that the instructor accepts hay, banana tips, and quiet admiration, and that she grades on a curve where everyone passes but nobody graduates. I pulled a muscle, she did not, and I consider the tuition money well spent. Class dismissed, dinner served, loaf resumed. Tomorrow we practice again, and I will still be the worst student in a class of one, happy about it.

🐰

Written by Azmi

I track my rabbits' diet, weight and naps to see what works. Photos are mine, mess included. Say hi on the contact page.

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