You’re No Bunny ’til Somebunny Loves You

Like most small children, my daughter had wanted a furry pet.  There was only one problem; my husband is deathly allergic to cats and most dogs.

So when, in kindergarten, she brought home the class bunny for the weekend to “visit”, resulting in no swollen eyes or rampant sneezing fits, we told her she could have a rabbit as a pet.

I then realized I didn’t know the first thing about rabbits.

Fortunately, we live in a city, and quickly found not one, but two rabbit rescue groups.  I took my daughter to one of their facilities and there, in a cage, hunched a young black and white “lop”.  The name on the cage said “Charlie”.  He had a torn ear.  She put her nose up to his through the cage.

It was love at first sight.

Thus, we became the owners of a “house rabbit”.  Volunteers came to our home and walked us through all the areas that would need bunny-proofing.  They found a temporary home for him, while we waited for delivery of his cage (a rabbit condo, really.)  We learned what greens to buy and took note that rabbits have very delicate spines and don’t particularly like to be held or carried.  Then, soon after, they delivered to us a quivering, long-eared, black spotted lagomorph – our new pet.

Charlie learned to use a litter box, investigated every person who came and went through the house, and would jump on the couch to be petted while we watched television.  He even learned not to chew on the furniture or electric cords, although we never could get him not to chew the rubber buttons off the remotes!  For years, he slept under our bed at night.

That first meeting was eight years ago.  Charlie is now almost nine, which is ancient for a rabbit.  In the past year, he has lost his spunk, and, more recently, a substantial amount of weight.  It won’t be long until my husband and I find him dead or, as is more likely, feel compelled to have him euthanized, more to put us out of our pain, than him out of his.

But I cannot let go just yet.  Thus, after weeks of watching him eat, only to lose weight (and ruin the rugs in my family room), I took him to the veterinarian for a diagnosis.  Four hundred dollars to confirm what I already suspected:  he’s just old. 

I brought him home, deciding that, for now, I would continue to feed him, clean up after him, and wait for him to show no interest in food or our affection.  Only then will I be ready to let go of the small furry animal that for over half my daughter’s life has been a pure expression of gentleness and love.