Hare 
Hare is permanently displeased. No matter where he is placed, he casts a stern eye over everything he sees. More than see, Hare senses. He knows what I’m doing, even if I try and hide it from him.
It is almost impossible to believe that hare was once a slab of wood from a dumpster behind a cheap kitchen components warehouse in Annandale, combined with some painting supplies stolen from a high school and a photocopied picture of a hare from an old book about animals. It seems there was never a time where Hare did not exist, when Hare did not judge me.
Hare’s been with me through various different houses, life changes, agonies and glories, and he takes a dim view of it all. Worst of all, I had the audacity to take a rabbit under my care. After the acquisition of the rabbit, Hare stopped communicating with me. He began the sulk to end all sulks. His extreme displeasure was obviously still evident.
I’ve tried patching things up with Hare, but he’ll have none of it. Neither my friends nor partners are acceptable, and he doesn’t even like my clothes! He thinks they are too gaudy. What’s more I go to bed either sinfully late or shamefully early and I don’t eat at least 12 different fruits or vegetables every day. It is impossible to live up to Hare’s standards.
The final indignity came when, upon "tidying" the living room in preparation for the sale of the house, Mother placed Hare in a drawer in the sideboard. I opened it to check on him recently. His displeasure has never been greater.