📅 Monday, 29 June 2026 · No. 97

Tea Party Tonight (Humans Not Allowed)

🌿 Daily Logs · ✎ 4 min · by Azmi in Meknes

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

Ladies and gentlemen of the burrow, please take your seats. Tonight only, by the edge of the rug here in my room in Meknes, Daniel hosts a tea party for bunnies, and humans are not on the guest list. The invitations were issued by scent and habit, the dress code is fur, and the menu is short but distinguished. I attended as staff, server, and distant observer, notebook in hand, and this post is the official program, printed after the fact, with the full running order of the shortest and best party of the year.

Act One: the table is set

The stage was the rug edge, lit by the evening lamp. I laid out the service ten minutes before showtime: a water bowl freshened and garnished with parsley stems for the tea course, haycakes arranged in a neat row like small pastries, and seating assigned by size so nobody had to argue over the softest spot. A good book waited nearby, untouched and purely decorative, because every proper tea party needs literature on the table. Daniel inspected each item with the gravity of a chef judging a rival kitchen, rearranged one haycake with his nose, and declared the room ready by flopping beside the spread. Doors, in the sense of my attention, were officially open.

Act Two: the guests arrive

The guest list was exclusive and entirely bunny. Arrivals happened in order of confidence, the boldest first, straight to the haycakes, the shy ones circling the rug twice before committing to a seat. Sniffing the place settings took longer than any human cocktail hour I have ever endured, and with far better manners. Ears turned toward every crinkle of the hay bag like an audience turning toward the stage door. By the time every seat was taken, the parsley tea was being sampled with great seriousness, and Daniel, as host, retreated two steps to watch his friends eat first. A generous host. A proud one. I stayed by the wall with the camera, staff badge invisible but felt.

Bunnies gathered around a rug edge tea party setup with haycakes and a water bowl in warm lamplight — Second seat at the table, taken within seconds.

Intermission: notes from the serving staff

Parsley stems in fresh water read as tea; strong-smelling herbs are for sniffing first, tasting second
Haycakes vanish fastest when arranged in rows; piles get sat on, rows get eaten
One book, unopened, improves the atmosphere enormously and costs nothing

A word from the kitchen, offered humbly and with one caution: rich spreads are for special evenings only, and the everyday menu stays simple. I keep the daily record in my log of what my bunnies ate today, and anything new or generous gets checked against my vet’s guidance first, because a party should never cost a stomach ache. Fresh water stayed available through the whole event, uneaten extras were cleared within the hour, and the parsley went back to garnish portions after the show. Celebration with a safety net underneath, that is the house style.

Act Three: the four-minute feast

The feast itself lasted four minutes, timed on the wall clock. Haycakes went first, parsley tea second, and then a round of mutual grooming that I choose to interpret as after-dinner conversation. Someone binkied past the book and nearly rewrote the ending. Daniel circled the table twice, checking every guest, then claimed the final haycake as the host’s privilege while the room pretended not to notice. Crumbs were investigated, the bowl was pronounced empty by three separate noses, and the youngest guest fell asleep mid-chew in a way that brought the house down. Critics agree: four minutes, no notes, best party of the year by a distance.

Encore: the host’s reward

After the guests drifted off to their corners, Daniel stayed behind at the cleared table for the host’s private encore. One leftover haycake, saved with clear intent, eaten slowly in the lamplight with the satisfaction of a chef tasting his own work. I refilled the water bowl with plain fresh water and sat on the floor nearby, staff dismissed, company kept. He washed his face with both paws, flopped against the rug edge, and sighed the deep sigh of a host whose evening went exactly to plan. Four minutes of feasting, an hour of quiet pride after. I took the last photo of the night there: a tired, happy host asleep among crumbs, book still unopened, party officially legendary.

Curtain call and review

The brother from another burrow, attending in spirit, approves of the proceedings, and all bunnies love tea with a good book nearby, even an unread one. Cleanup took longer than the party: crumbs swept, bowl washed, rug shaken, book returned to the shelf with a new dent that I will treasure. Total cost was a handful of hay and a few stems, total profit was a camera roll of contented faces and one host bunny sleeping in the exact center of the cleared table like a king in an empty hall. Similar golden-hour gatherings fill my dandelion afternoon photo log, and this one joins them at the top of the list. Humans may observe from a distance. Bunnies may come as they are. The tea party is adjourned until the next full hay moon.

🐰

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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