📅 Thursday, 24 September 2026 · No. 174

Pluck Season: She Enjoys It (I Help)

📓 My Tracker · ✎ 4 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 Meknes, and the season has turned: it is pluck season in our house, the great annual molt, and this year it is the biggest one of our two years together. Tufts everywhere. The coat gone hobo-chic, patches of sleek new fur beside clouds of loose old fluff that lift off when she moves. And the surprise of it, the thing nobody warned me about, is that she enjoys the plucking. Prefers it, in fact, over every grooming method I have ever tried. I help. She supervises the helping. We are a team.

The ritual has its own liturgy by now, repeated each evening on the rug. I sit cross-legged. She climbs into the circle of my legs and presents her flank with the solemnity of a patient who trusts the doctor. I take only what comes easy, rolling the loose tufts gently between my fingers, never pulling, never forcing, stopping the instant the fur resists. She leans into the good strokes and steps away from the bad ones, then circles back for more, pulling away and leaning back in like a dancer rehearsing a step. Somewhere nearby the helper bunny watches, occasionally contributing a grooming nibble of his own, as if to demonstrate technique. Furry tumbleweeds gather at the edges of the rug regardless.

The tools we tried and the one she chose

We auditioned the full orchestra before settling on fingers. The soft brush: tolerated for ninety seconds, then bitten. The rubber mitt: fascinating as a chew object, useless as a groomer. The fine comb: the look she gave it would curdle milk. Plucking won because it is precise and social; she feels exactly what I am doing, she controls the pressure by shifting her weight, and the whole thing happens inside cuddle-range instead of at brush-length. My broader brushing notes from calmer months live in my grooming notes and brushing log, but molt weeks belong to fingers alone. The vacuum, meanwhile, works overtime on the fallout, and I have made my peace with finding tufts in places physics cannot explain.

The goofy phase deserves its own verse. Mid-molt she wears the patchwork look: sleek dark saddle, pale fluffy trousers, one ear shedding faster than the other so she looks permanently windswept. I tease her gently, the way you tease family, telling her she looks like a scarecrow’s apprentice, and she responds by demanding head rubs with increased urgency, as if to confirm the ego is intact. Ego management is required during pluck season. A rabbit who looks ridiculous must be told she is beautiful at least hourly. I comply. She is beautiful, patchwork and all, glowing underneath where the new coat comes through dense and bright.

What lies beneath, and when I ask for help

Under the loose fluff the new fur arrives short and velvety, sometimes thin enough that pink skin shows through in places, which startled me badly the first year. Here is where I am strict with myself: anything about skin, bald patches, flakes, redness, or behaviour changes goes to my veterinarian, full stop. I do not diagnose coat conditions from the rug and nothing here is treatment advice. My at-home rule is simple: pluck only what releases with zero resistance, keep sessions short and voluntary, and call the clinic with any question at all. A molt that looks wrong to an experienced eye, or a rabbit going off food or acting sore during shedding, deserves professional attention the same day. My vet would rather hear from me early than late, and I take that seriously.

The evenings have their own rhythm now. Pluck, rest, treat, flop. She always ends the session the same way: a full-body shake that launches a final halo of fluff, then a dramatic collapse onto her side in the middle of the fur-field, daring me to clean around her. Those rest photos join the collection in my flop diary of evening rest photos, where the post-grooming sprawl is a recurring genre. Two years together and the pattern holds: the hobo phase, handled together, ending each night with a glossy rabbit asleep in a nest of her own former coat.

There is also the weather factor nobody mentions until they live it. Here in Meknes the molt arrives with the warm wind, and the house fills with drifting fluff that catches the afternoon light like snow. I have learned to groom near the balcony door so the loosest tufts sail straight out, and to change the rug cover twice as often for those weeks. Friends with short-coated rabbits laugh at my lint roller collection until they visit mid-season and leave wearing a souvenir layer. Pluck season touches everyone. Resistance is fur-tile.

Pluck team of two, signing off for tonight. The rug is furred, the vacuum is full, the bunny glows underneath, and the helper bunny has claimed the best cushion as his supervisory fee. Yearly hobo phase, handled together, teased gently, loved completely. When the last tuft releases and the new coat lies flat and shining, I will miss this strange intimate chore a little. Until then there is more fluff to gather, more leaning-in to feel, and a goofy gorgeous rabbit waiting in the circle of my legs.

🐰

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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