Palm Beach Gardens, FL
Friday, 29 August 2013
Peter
is a dwarf Rex rabbit who has lived with us for almost eight years. He has inhabited various areas in our
kitchen and, when the Florida weather was cool enough, claimed great expanses
of our screened in porch for his own.
He does full backward flips to express his joy. He crouches softly and patiently beside
my feet as I stand and work in the kitchen: waiting for me to run my hand slowly along his silken
body—and to offer a morsel of banana or smidge of applesauce. Peter is bossy
and, twice a year his coat poofs clouds of down into the air as it changes. Given the opportunity, (actually creating
the opportunity himself), he can jump up onto tables and out of just about any
enclosure. Peter is the
quintessential embodiment of Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit. He is daring. He is darling.
And
he is dying.
When
I open his cage door, he does not run from captivity to explore the vast wilds
of our kitchen’s lower cupboard corners.
Tonight, he sits, rather, as if poured onto the cage corner carpet: gravity too much to overcome. I lay my hand against his face and he
leans into it. I would take him
into my arms tonight and rock him gently.
I think, though, that he would prefer I not intrude upon his chosen
isolation—however much better it might make me feel.
It
is incredible that I would spend such time to think about this small rabbit’s
coming death. He has had a
pampered, adventurous life—more than any other dwarf rabbit could have wished
for. My three children were grown and busy with their own lives—I
brought Peter home because I needed someone who needed me. What I quickly found out was that Peter
was much like Megan, Lauren and Nathan:
I needed him much more than he needed me. As I learned this, I contented myself with the fact that I
provided food, water, greens, safety and the occasional thrilling moment of
uncertainty when I flipped him over and cuddled him on his back so that I could
trim his nails.
During
his time with us, three other dwarf rabbits—Oops, bought to provide a companion
for Peter, and two “rescue” rabbits, joined him. As Peter sits motionless, the three of them now gaze
anxiously about their cages—the rabbit that existed before them all is immobile. It feels different. It is different.
Of
them all, Peter was the only one coloured for camouflage. The other three all have huge areas of
bright white fur—making them easy to spot in the dusk when I go onto the porch
to bring everyone in for the evening.
Peter, the colour of shadow—and the most clever of the four, should have
been hardest to find—the last to be rounded up and herded inside.
Peter,
however, knows that coming inside means coming in for a treat. A few Cheerios, chunks of cabbage,
Romaine lettuce leaves, carrot pieces, or even (a few times) dehydrated apple
bits: first one in gets first
pick. As I bring up the end of the
line heading indoors, three white bumping buns follow Peter’s bit of white tail
as it bobs quickly up and down in front of the others—signaling the exact path
to take.
Over
the years, his soft, buttery brown fur has slowly been joined by thousands of
white-gray hairs—making his coat the colour of sea-washed driftwood. Oops has been his careful, cage
companion, continuing to clean him, even as his ability to do so faltered.
Saturday,
30 March 2013
Peter
is still alive this morning. I
bring him alone into the kitchen to be with me. Even with the pain killer the vet prescribed, his blueberry
eyes are clouded in pain. His teeth
have been shaved down—even two extracted on one side. In the last two days he has taken a few sips of water and
nibbled some tender Romaine leaves.
As I watch, he moves to slowly savor a few strands of finely shredded
carrot. Now he lays prone, taking
quick-shallow breaths, in his favorite spot—middle of the kitchen, north side—too
tired to even pull himself up on all four feet.
He
is tired and I am tired of him hurting.
I call the vet and she can see us immediately. I have been preparing to re-caulk the shower, dressed in
ratty shorts and a stained shirt, and I don’t even change. I slip on sandals and pull a clean
towel from the bathroom. It is one
of my nicest ones, monogrammed . . . with a bunny-chewed hole in one corner.
At
one point, my husband would have pointed out the vandalism and asked me why I
couldn’t use towels-demoted-to-rags around the rabbits. I would have been embarrassed to admit
that I didn’t remember using a good towel—one of them must have gotten hold of
it was out and I was folding laundry.
With
the towel in hand, I go back into the kitchen and gently . . . gently, slide my
fingers under the nearly weightless Peter, lift him up from the kitchen floor,
and hang him over my shoulder.
As
we walk through the garage to the car, Nathan takes a few last photographs of
Peter and me on my phone. I tell
Peter out loud—so I can hear it myself—I love him and good-bye.
Nathan
drives the car, as Peter lies parallel to my legs, long in my lap, with his
eyes open. He does not relax his
perfect ears down along his back.
Ears, that when Peter first arrived in our home, covered the tiny, naked
patch of skin underneath where fur had not yet grown in. As we pass homes and businesses, is
ears are at half-mast, unresponsive to the sounds of the radio or Nathan’s
voice.
The
vet meets us at her office and takes Peter tenderly into the back room. A few minutes later, she hands me a
limp loaf that was Peter—now wrapped securely in the towel. We bring him home, dig a hole along the
back fence, say a prayer and cover his body with soil and several large rocks. He is interred in good company: two
other pets that died after living a long life with us; and the few wounded, wild
animals that we found and that died after our efforts to heal them failed.
Sunday,
31 March 2013
Today
is Easter—celebration of Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection. I believe in that resurrection—and in
its power to heal. I am so glad
that Peter lived in our home. I
would not have missed the eight years that he spent with us—the eight years
that taught me to be daring, to become darling—and how to face death.
