We gratefully acknowledge the original 'Disapproving Rabbits' website, that inspired this site, and its creators, Sharon, Bill, Cinnamon, and Dougal. Without you, we would not be here. We Approve Of You!
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Monday, September 26, 2016
- Thank you, Femke!
PS: You can follow Boo & Knorretje on their FB page at https://www.facebook.com/bunnies.boo.knorretje
Sunday, September 25, 2016
It's not even getting cool here, but I can feel the season is coming, so we're trying to get in the mood of things. Hoomin had to reach into archives for the pic - it's been a long week and today on the agenda is a lot of "emergency" yard work.
He modified my bundo and added a hay box to it. The container fits along the short side of the bundo. Another benefit of that is that my bum leg won't be getting caught on the opening to the bundo.
He's a little concerned about my gut and not eating enough hay. I've been noming a lot of veg lately, and that's not a good thing always. So now I can stumble into hay very easily. Cross your paws.
- Mr. Bun
Saturday, September 24, 2016
I was sitting in the back of the craft, in an improvised seat, playing the role of glorified ballast. Next to me, in the crush-proof container, was a vat of antigen for vaccine production. Abby sat up front, acting as the commander of the craft. According to regulations, I was supposed to sit next to her, acting as the "pilot." Today, the moment we undocked from the "Buzzard," we had left the regulations behind, in a higher orbit, about five hours ago. We spent two days modifying the interior of the landing shuttle to be able to make the emergency delivery on time. Oh, we had to make the antigen ourselves, too, because the needed silicone compound could only be made reliably in the environment of microgravity. It's a good thing Abby had a knack for biochemistry when she got into space flight.
The window for delivery was closing fast. If anyone was to survive the plague, the vaccine production had to be finished in the next seventy-two hours. Out of the five cities still standing, only one was near a landing facility capable of receiving our vehicle.
By pure chance, we had the requisite equipment for making the antigen on board the "Buzzard." You see, the "Buzzard" is a recovery vessel, and we just got done dismantling an old medical research lab slated for scrap. The company had to talk us through the equipment set up for the manufacturing process itself.
We were almost done with the re-entry procedure. We didn't converse unless we had to. There wasn't much to talk about anyway. There was nothing to do for us, either. In this phase of flight, we let the computer do all the flying. If we tried to pilot the craft by paw, we would be dead. None of us could act with the precision and speed of the Response Control System. We would end up getting torn to shreds by the aerodynamic forces
The ride was getting bumpy now, and I started to feel the force of gravity. As our deceleration progressed, I felt heavier and heavier until I could barely move my paws. We were almost done with the hottest part of the re-entry, meaning the hot plasma outside would not have us this time. I kept monitoring the flight parameters projected onto the visor of my helmet. The craft's temperature was decreasing ever so slightly; I bet Abby was thinking about preparations for the landing itself.
Then, I felt the hit. A shudder traveled through the body of the craft and up my spine until the hair stood up all over my head. Indicators started turning red, some I've only seen in simulation. "What was that?" I asked. Audible alarms were blaring and overlapping, creating an ominous, high-pitched, death rattle cacophony. "Starboard wing; thermal protection breach," said Abby, unfazed. I was it, and I could do nothing to help. The temperature of the left wing tip was rising. The RCS system was in overdrive, trying to remain in control of the vehicle. I felt the vibrations getting more and more violent. "We don't have much time," I said.
"We won't make it.", announced Abby, then we called out in unison, "Abort to orbit!" I barely noticed her paw turning the emergency abort switch. I blinked and said, "Copy that, Commander." I felt the rumble of the wings retracting and the nose of the craft pitching up, followed by a serious thump in the back as the main engines kicked in. The wing tip temperature remained hot, but it stopped rising.
Even this time, it looked like the plasma would not get us.
The abort to low orbit was successful. We barely made it. Because the orbit was so low, we couldn't stay there very long. As soon I could, I got out of my restraints and floated toward Abby. I pushed off too hard and bounced off the wall, flying toward Abby like a crazy eight ball. I grabbed the handlebar on the side of her seat and held on to it. She was already running diagnostics on the flight control subsystems. As we had suspected, the starboard elevator was out of commission. The diagnostic check reported it as non-existent. Later that evening, we found out that it was still there, but it was damaged beyond our means of repair. I kept my eyes on the pressure indicator. We took off our helmets as soon as it lit up green. I started getting the shakes, and all I could do was stick my head under Abby's chin, almost crawling into her spacesuit. We stayed like that for a while, drifting, listening to the silence flooding the craft once the mayhem died down.
"Well, that's one fine adventure, isn't it, Commander?"
"Indeed, Mr. Toes," responded Abby.
We found some chewy biscuits and sipped some water, and it never tasted so good. We didn't get roasted, and that was good enough for now.
"Indeed, Mr. Toes," responded Abby.
We found some chewy biscuits and sipped some water, and it never tasted so good. We didn't get roasted, and that was good enough for now.
We did some math we didn't want to do. The ride back to orbit used up most of our fuel, and now we had barely enough for the deorbit burn and the RCS thrusters. To make matters worse, we couldn't refuel from the "Buzzard." We could make only one attempt at a deorbit, followed by a high-speed landing at the aerodrome. Somehow, we had to figure out how to turn our craft into a simulator and at least try to get some practice flying this thing in a lifting body mode.
If we survived the landing and delivered the payload, we would find out on our hides how effective the vaccine from our antigen was. Then, we would be stuck on the surface, for Bun knows how long. Or we could wait here, bring the "Buzzard" down remotely, leave, and try to live with ourselves.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Monday, September 19, 2016
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Last Week on the Disapprovers: Abby, Mr. Toes, and Freddie watch the view from the ISS, and Mr. Toes contemplates the questions future holds for The Disapprovers crew.
There was much elation after our return from the ISS. Freddie—yes, Freddie—tried to explain to every bun that floating in microgravity was like a never-ending binky. Pancake just grinned and stared at him, not because his description of the "never-ending" binky was so evocative but because she's never seen him that animated. Abby told every bun about our exploits during the short night on the ISS, and we enjoyed following up on the events at the station.
The crew of the ISS had quite a positive reaction to our peace offering. One of them consumed most of the evidence in a couple of bites before getting zero gravity tackled for the remains of the nom.
The little elementary school hoomins were most amused by something eating their space-grown lettuce. One of the cosmonauts said that it looked as if a rabbit ate it, but that's impossible because there are no rabbits in space! He insinuated that his colleague ate it, or maybe that rascal American did it. The kids were unconvinced and insisted this had to be the handiwork of a space alien or aliens. One little girl that said it would be nice if rabbits could live in the ISS along with other small animals.
Vladimir, the lead spacewalker, did very well during the EVA. He packed a little picture of his grandpa in his spacesuit, and he made grandpa proud. The capcom had to prod him a couple of times when Vladimir got quiet for a bit longer than what ground control was comfortable with, but he carried out the repairs without a hitch. When Vladimir emerged from the airlock after returning to the ISS, his eyes were all red and puffy. He tried to blame it on poor sleep the night before, then on the CO2 scrubber. Was it leaking lithium hydroxide again? I knew better.
Once the show simmered down, we began to nom on the dreaded and chewy question of "What's next?" As I suspected, it was in the back of everybun's mind. The only thing we could agree on was that we'd decide nothing until everybun gets to visit the ISS. We all thought there's no substitute for a direct experience of this sort. It is guaranteed to open, if not obliterate, everybun's mental cage.
We tried to form a plan of action to deal with some unpleasant possibilities, beginning with the worst case scenario of our cover getting blown. I don't mean our hoomins getting wind of us sneaking out of the house or discovering some of our equipment. I mean someone coming across the underground artery leading to Singularia. That brought us to dealing with our hoomins in case we had to evacuate. Do we make arrangements for them to settle somewhere else, or should we leave them to their own devices? Did we have any right to let the hoomins, even if they were our beloved hoomins, out of the confines of this planet? What about ourselves? What if we already took on too many of the hoomin traits? What if we weren't any better than them? Are we liable to commit their mistakes and atrocities in the name of some grand plan or universal justice?
We discussed the notion that we should open our discovery to a larger audience. Maybe we should create permanent ports for others to use however they see fit, to make it easier to carry out small operations like ours, on a much wider scale. The unappealing possibility it implied again involved the secret getting into the completely open and everybun losing access Singularia. It meant hoomins getting their grubby paws on her.
Then we argued the pros and cons of planning a prolonged campaign to improve the lives of as many creatures as we could versus planning to go completely off the terrestrial reservation. Freddie wanted to find the origins of Singularia. He wanted to explore the habitable possibilities in more exotic locations of the universe.
Molly and Freddie advocated direct action in the fashion of the lab bust to liberate bunnehs from meat farms and labs and to shame and bankrupt the perpetrators. For starters, Molly suggested an "inventory transfer" for one of the prominent, big money grocers. "Around a traditional holiday, why don't we supplement the grocer's freezers with other frozen pets, moved over from particular, exotic locations on the planet. What's the problem? We would move stuff around that's already there!"
Freddie thought it would be great to visit our "good doctor" in the prison. He and Molly agreed they could make "it" look like an accident. I didn't care to find out what they meant by "it." Then he talked about moving most of his workshop to the wreckage. He talked about feigning his escape into the outdoors so hoomins would not try to find him so he could move to the wreck permanently. It was the peace and quiet that appealed to him. He wanted to explore the wreck in depth.
Sadly, we had to say goodbye to Lincoln. Again, age and time had gotten to one of us. Ava came up with an idea to honor all of our crew members who had died. What if we mixed a little bit of their ashes with paint and then painted with that a part of a satellite or a deep space probe? I think that's a pretty good start. I believe that it would be even more fun to find that mothership we keep talking about or maybe that planet we're not supposed to know anything about, and let them rest there? We would have never been able to do all that we've done without their help.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Monday, September 12, 2016
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Last Week on the Disapprovers: Freddie joins Abby and Mr. Toes in the ISS. Mr. Toes almost gets a heart attack when Freddie announces his arrival by grabbing Mr. Toes' foot. After some good-natured frolic, all three venture to the Zvezda module to consume a delicious science experiment.
In the end, there was a beginning. I am floating and trying to consider where to go from here. I mean there we are in the cupola, keeping quiet. Abby and Freddie are simply keeping still. From time to time, Abby corrects her orientation with a touch of her paw. Freddie does the same. He corrects himself by either slightly poking Abby or me. Then we have to touch something to return to equilibrium. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I'm not sure how long we had for observation. We went by the section with the exposed spacesuit. I glanced at it and gave up on my ideas to play tricks on the poor hoomins. I don't know why, but until now, I had hoped to cause a riot here. The reason I'm confessing to this is to confirm that mundane, trivially pedestrian and terrestrial thoughts do happen in space and to the best of us.
Somehow, I thought it would be fascinating to cause a nervous breakdown in a cosmonaut during a spacewalk. Tomorrow, Vladimir Stoitsky is scheduled to do some maintenance on the outside. I thought that if I snuck some pellets into his spacesuit, he'd get homesick. I didn't want to stink up his suit, but to make him respond to the scent without noticing it. This is my idea for an experiment in experimental psychology. Let's get him to reconnect with the land he's flying above—with the fields and woods around the village where he spent his summers with his grandfather.
That's how he got into the space program. His grandpa was one of the engineers working on the early Soyuz program. Vladimir remembered asking his grandpa about the strange chunk of metal in a glass case sitting on top of a homemade bookshelf. It was a remnant of an explosive bolt from a fatal Soyuz test flight. His grandpa was very close to the cosmonaut that died on that flight. The metal fragment was all that was left of their friendship, and it made grandpa cry every time he talked about it. Back then, the best they could do was to be friends. They knew what was good for them and the space program. Grandpa did what was expected of him when he married Svetlana, Vladimir's grandmother.
Back then, she was a prominent party official, quickly rising through the ranks. She was a mathematician, so at least they had something in common. When the explosive bolt failed, instead of separating the landing module from the rest of the vehicle, it tore through and pulverized grandpa's heart. As Vladimir was growing up, he loved and appreciated his grandpa more and more. Once he started to comprehend the level of loss and sacrifice his grandpa endured and how he faced life afterward, it made everything else look "not so bad."
Sigh, now I'm glad I didn't torment the poor guy. I turned my attention to Abby and Freddie again. I loved watching them. Watching them look at the stars gave me pleasure to no end. I did that until the wake-up music started to play for the crew. In the meantime, I was enjoying the luxury of not having anything scheduled, not having a timeline to maintain, and not being responsible for anybun at the moment. Freddie just glued himself to the window pane when we circled the globe for another sunset over the ocean. I had hoped he would leave cute, fat nose prints on the glass. He gripped a small metal pipe with his hind paws and pressed himself against the window. Abby glanced at me with a grin, enjoying his reactions as much as I did.
As much as I tried to ignore it, in the back of my mind lingered a question about what we should do with our newly found empowerment. We could travel anywhere we wanted to; we could play "fly on the wall" anywhere we wanted to. Most likely, we could locate the place where the Singularia originated; we could trace back the origins of the craft wreckage under our yard. Our adventures could go on and on as long as the local municipality didn't decide to upgrade sewers in our area. What are we supposed to do with that? The possibilities are as open and overwhelming as the view in front of us. As long as we remained on "this" side of the question, we are safe, safe from the consequences of deciding, just as we are safe and protected at the moment from the lack of oxygen in the void on the other side of the glass pane. However, as soon as we cross the transparent membrane of a decision ...
However, I suspected, the sense of safety, cocooned in hesitation and indecision, is an illusion. Most likely, time will dissolve that membrane, and the decision will be made for us. Maybe the question is how we should ride it, not so much where we ride it to.
Suddenly, the wake-up music blasted through the station, and I had more pellets in my diaper. Abby grabbed Freddie by the collar of his suit, and we headed back to our Singularia port.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Monday, September 5, 2016
Sunday, September 4, 2016
As you might have noticed, we had a nasty, soaking storm barrel through Florida this week. Thus my hoomin got to work from home one day and kept a watch me. He re-configured my bundo a little bit so he wanted to make sure that I could find my way to food and water. I'm doing fine with that, and he says the sound of me nibbling on hay is the best sound ever.
This morning we had "nanner samiches" with raspberry and basil. All after proper SARx breakfast, of course.
Forecast for the rest of the long weekend is snorgly with frequent headrubs and intermittent movie naps ;-)
- Mr. Bun