Everything I own -- my clothes, my furniture, and a good part of my respiratory tract -- is made with angora. That's because I share my home with a 4-pound angora rabbit. He was originally purchased in a fit of misplaced longing for my kids, who'd gone off to college, and a conviction that I'd one day learn to spin. Why not get a utility pet, I figured -- someone to love, and to make sweaters out of? What could be bad?
I picked the handsomest lilac puffball of the litter, brought him home, and named him Benzo [short for benzodiazepines, a class of tranquilizers] because he calmed me down. My husband nicknamed him TLC, for Tastes Like Chicken. [Can you say gender gap?] "Sure he's cute," Don said, "but what does he do?
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