#tinyterror

Be chased through the woods by an extremely determined squirrel for unknown reasons.

Be forced to babysit Arwen’s pet rabbit, who hates you for no apparent reason.

Ah. Dear anon of the city of Ymous, you have presented me with a choice, and yet, I must tell you—it is not a hypothetical.

It is a reality I live.

Arwen already possesses a rabbit.

A most adorable, undeniably fluffy creature with ears as soft as clouds and the appearance of something that should be sweet-tempered and affectionate.

And yet. AND YET.

This tiny beast loathes me with every fiber of its impossibly soft being. Its name, most deceivingly gentle, is Lótilassë. A poetic name for a creature that has, on more than one occasion, attempted to end me.

I do not know what crime I have committed to earn Lótilassë’s eternal grudge. Perhaps I once offended her by existing too close to her designated area of dominion (which is, apparently, everywhere).

Perhaps my scent displeases her.

Perhaps she simply knows that I am weak-willed when it comes to bunnies and will adore her regardless of how much she disapproves of me.

She growls at me. Growls. Like a tiny, fluffy warg.

She has boxed my ankles with her little paws. She has lunged at me when I attempted to refill her food bowl. She has tried to chew through my robe, perhaps in an attempt to make me feel as powerless as she believes me to be. And yet, when Arwen holds her? Sweetness incarnate. A darling, an angel, the very vision of innocence.

Let me tell you of one of the many times Lótilassë, the fluffiest terror in all of Imladris, made it abundantly clear that I am but a tolerated presence in her world.

It was a peaceful afternoon. The sun filtered through the leaves in golden dapples, birds trilled their songs, the gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, and for once, I had settled in the gardens with a book, fully intending to enjoy the tranquility of the moment.

But I was not alone.

Lótilassë had been placed outside for her supervised frolic, and I, foolish and full of hope, thought: Perhaps today. Perhaps today she will accept me as one of her own.

And so, in my infinite wisdom, I did what any logical being would do—I offered her a treat. A simple, harmless offering. A fresh sprig of parsley, which I knew she adored.

She stared at it. Then at me. Then at it again.

I thought, for one blissful moment, that she might accept my peace offering. But no. Instead, she bit the parsley, yanked it out of my hand, and THREW IT TO THE SIDE, as if to say, I could have taken this myself, you insignificant worm.

And then she lunged.

I barely had time to react before she was at my robe, biting the hem—not enough to tear it, no, but enough to make it very clear that this was a warning. A statement. A declaration of my continued unworthiness.

I yelped. I moved away. She followed. She followed.

Now, dear reader, I would like to remind you that she is a rabbit. A small, fluffy, objectively adorable rabbit. And yet, as I retreated, she advanced, unrelenting in her silent fury. I stood, thinking perhaps she wanted my seat. She did not take my seat. She merely stared, victorious, as I surrendered my place in the gardens and retreated to safety.

Arwen, of course, laughed when she found me later. “She’s just asserting her dominance,” she said, as if that should comfort me.

I still love Lótilassë. I still dote upon her. But let it be known—this is her world. I am merely surviving in it.