Zeus the polecat ferret slips into the earth like he belongs there. The entrance is narrow, the darkness complete, but he doesn’t slow down. Underground, the rabbit hole system opens into a vast, twisting network carved out over decades. Every tunnel carries a story. Every turn carries a scent.
Alone beneath the surface, Zeus works methodically. He squeezes through tight passages, pauses, sniffs, then surges forward again. Somewhere ahead, rabbits feel the disturbance and bolt, their movements echoing through the soil. This is where Zeus is at his best—silent, focused, unstoppable.
What lies beneath him is older than it looks. For generations, people believed rabbits arrived in Britain with the Normans. Recent archaeological finds challenge that story. A single rabbit bone uncovered at Fishbourne Roman Palace in West Sussex was radiocarbon dated to the 1st century AD, suggesting the Romans brought rabbits centuries earlier. Back then, they weren’t pests or livestock, but rare animals—kept as exotic pets or valued for food, long before they spread across the land.
As Zeus navigates these tunnels, he’s moving through layers of history as much as soil. The rabbits may have arrived with empires, but the hunt remains unchanged. Instinct endures. The underground world stays the same.
History above. Wild nature below.