Be cunning, and full of tricks - Munroe.

[Longear]

Sometimes she thinks she can hear a tiny voice, apprehensive and shaken, in the kind of empty spots in her head where mother’s warnings and lullabies don’t go. A special place, not entirely her own but shared. Both of theirs – though she doesn’t know who she shares her head with. But, all the same, when it comes a-rattling, she tries to listen best she can. Because she feels she must. Like somehow, she owes that little speaker; like the things it says are important, not just for it, but for her, too. 
So her ears swivel and swerve and she stands up tall, cocking her head, and holding her breath. Squeezing one eye tight (never both eyes!), trying to block out the dull thud of hooves and the squeal of young foals… 

But it’s gone. Mother’s warning and lullabies singing through her ears in its stead. She drops down to her front paws, disappointed. Her nose twitches (it always twitches) and for a second she can feel that jolt like electricity flick its center. She flinches and thinks she has felt that, but much worse, before; one day mother will tell her why she feels these things like phantoms shocking her lips and legs and why she hears that little voice. She will curl her up at night and tell her of her strange birthday, why she is a two fused into a singular whole. Maybe then (maybe only then) she will feel one and undisputed.

But then, maybe she is made and meant to be two.
Nature doesn’t solder souls together everyday, does she?

She turns and lopes a step, keeping close to the thicket rimming the open meadow – brush and tangles of wild raspberry plants. It’s where she feels most safe as this self. Her nose wriggles. She stands on her hinds feet, looking around. Back onto all fours. She has learned to be careful. Always so careful. 
When she is sure the coast is clear (for now) she settles onto her rear, bringing her front paws up like in prayer in front of her, wetting them with her tongue and rubbing them down the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. She does the same again, wetting the thick fur on the undersides of her paws, then twists her head and grabs a long ear, pulling it across to lick what she can of the inside. 
One and then the other.

And then, satisfied that she is clean, she slips into the ragged edge of dense vegetation and meadowgrass, where she has hollowed out a form of her own, and lays down, legs kicked out behind. Watching. Always watching.

LONGEAR
Fiero and Vineine's little bunny.

@[holli] did you say you wanted rabbit grooming habits described in minutia. yes? yes?
no. nobody did.