(Warning: in this blogpost, I talk about losing pets through one means or another. If this will be saddening to you, tune back in tomorrow for a cute story about how pets do crazy things and bring joy to our lives)
For me, the twelve-month span from April 2019 to March 2020 was the year of the rabbits.
A little over a year ago, I was really struggling emotionally. We’d had a couple of sudden turns in the road and I felt like I was reeling from the whiplash. My parents came to visit us over Easter, and I remember feeling so disconnected throughout their visit. They left, and what little glue I had holding my shell together collapsed. I felt lonely, struggling for purpose, and was crying a lot.
So, my darling husband acquiesced to a desire I had been harboring for a few weeks: to get a pet rabbit. He hoped we would find a male, so we could potentially try to neuter it ourselves, but thankfully for my heart and the rabbit, I fell in love with a little gray female at our local pet store. For a grand total of approximately $4 I became the proud owner of our little ball of fluff. In a flash of late-night inspiration, we dubbed her “Marzipan,” (in honor of Homestarrunner’s girlfriend, of course) and began setting up her habitat on our balcony.
The first couple of weeks with Marzipan were fraught with uncertainty, especially when she contracted some kind of bunny cold or allergy and her nose started running. I sat on our kitchen floor and prayed for her with passion beyond any prayer I had prayed in recent memory. There was something about this little creature that immediately hooked itself deeply in my heart.
Her nose recovered. It was comforting to have another living thing hopping around our house when my husband had a late night at work, or to nestle her in the pocket of my hoodie when I did the dishes. At night we would sit on the floor and watch TV shows before I went to bed.
Marzipan really was beautiful, and a big hit with everyone who saw her. People were always surprised to see how friendly she was, how she was slowly learning to come when she was called, and how she was (much too slowly) learning to be litter-trained.
One Monday morning in early June my husband came to wake me up. He sat on the side of the bed and told me as gently as he could that Marzipan had been dead when he went to let her out that morning. There was nothing particular to explain why she died, but after only six weeks in our home, she was gone.
I was shattered. I’m still kind of shattered. An emotional support animal is not incredibly useful when it suddenly dies and adds to your emotional burden instead of taking away from it. I said goodbye, my husband took care of the body, and we pursued our plans of taking a day to shop in the city. I knew I needed to distract myself, but my thoughts kept returning to our little buddy who was no more.
I have friends who have lost parents, children, and siblings. I have said goodbye to houses and cities and jobs. For some reason, that little rabbit is still the thing that rips the most poignant “but why?” from deep inside of me. And then I’m left to wonder another “why?” Why does this seemingly insignificant thing matter to me so much? Rabbits are fragile creatures. For a pet rabbit to suddenly die is not uncommon. But for some reason for mine to die just seemed the most senseless injustice I could imagine.
I still don’t know why some griefs are so much greater than others. I’ve told myself a lot of platitudes about this particular one, but it doesn’t fix it.
Through the summer after she died, my heart ached. After about a month, I came to the conclusion that we needed to buy another rabbit, or I would forever be haunted by this sad experience. In our city it wasn’t uncommon for people to be selling rabbits out of cardboard boxes along the sidewalk, but the day I went to the look the only options I could find were back at the pet store. One was a sad, sickly-looking tiny thing. The other, a large white rabbit, easily three times as big as Marzipan. We had agreed we didn’t want a white rabbit. But as soon as I put my hand near the enclosure, this one lifted onto her hind legs, desperately sniffing and trying to get me to pet her. I knew we had found our new bunny.
We brought her home, batted around some name ideas, but as we got to know her, we determined that Fufu fit the bill. The storekeeper estimated that she was about six months old, and as she discovered life outside of small cages, her athleticism sky-rocketed. She did not like being enclosed. Our first attempted enclosures for her were unsuccessful, or untenable, as she would start noisily eating through the cardboard at two o’clock in the morning. It felt like we had a newborn.
We transitioned her to a set-up on the enclosed balcony, and she thrived. Her intelligence was sometimes staggering, and I’m not sure I’ve met an animal who loved people more. Far from the shy stereotype of her species, as soon as a guest walked in the door she would run up to their feet, stand on her hind legs, and beg to be pet. She would surprise people by jumping into their laps for a cuddle, and she also knew where all of her favorite treats were stored and would sit watchfully by the cabinet.
Fufu did heal a lot of the pain that Marzipan left, and there was comfort in knowing that we never would have found her had Marzipan survived. She was always happier when we were home, would pout if we left her too long, constantly pushed the boundaries of what was allowed, and knew when she was in trouble. She always responded to her special whistle, and would grumpily sit outside the door if we shut her out of the room.
The balcony where she slept at night had a window that connected it to the indoors, and in the first few months of 2020 she realized she could sit on the sill and watch for whoever was coming to grant her release. At night after we closed her up she would sit there and keep an eye on us. It was mildly creepy (especially if you walked into the dark room and weren’t expecting her) but it was also cute to see how very much she wanted to be with us.
The day we found out we were leaving we both took little packing breaks. As soon as we sat down she would materialize next to us, pushing her little head under our hands for some affection. When I went to feed her and put her away for the last time, I found myself wishing I had more time and more emotional energy to say goodbye to a creature who had been such a sweet companion through such a difficult season. But the mantra that got me through those twelve hours, (something like: “You’ll have time to feel this later”) held true here too.
When we got ready to leave for the airport, I was the last one in the apartment. I went to grab our last suitcase and glanced towards Fufu’s balcony. There she sat, in the window, watching us leave. It broke my heart. I can’t remember if I walked over to tell her one last goodbye through the cracked window, but I did pull out my phone to snap a quick shot and remember that last glimpse of my little buddy.
Thankfully we have awesome friends who found a new home for her. Last I heard Fufu is luxuriating in a beautiful home with a yard and another rabbit friend to keep her company. I don’t know if rabbits have very long memories, but I’m guessing the current set-up has her as happy as a bunny can be.
I’ve cried a few times and about a few different aspects of our departure, but the one that draws tears without fail is when I think about saying goodbye that little rabbit. For the first few weeks it was the only thing I cried about, and I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand. There were far more important things left behind when we got on the plane. But for some reason, Fufu seems to dwarf them all.
I can’t explain my reaction to either scenario. What it is teaching me is that emotions are complicated, and they rarely manifest as we would expect them to. Maybe I’m projecting other disappointments, or deeper griefs feel too deep to recognize. Or maybe I just really really love my pets.
I’m trying to be okay with the fact that what I intellectually recognize as a priority and what I react to emotionally are not always the same things. As I learn to display that grace to myself, I hope I can also extend it to other people. Grief isn’t logical or easily explainable. It’s surprising and complicated and demands patience. I hope if we hold it with open hands, not expecting anything of it, eventually it will dissipate and float away. I’m still waiting.