Bunny Boy and Me

by Nancy Laracy

  We mulled over a few bunny names, but our creativity was seriously lacking. Thankfully, bedtime became imminent and we would decide later. And thanks to the luck of the bunny, perhaps, Ward didn’t need to take any Benadryl. I painstakingly followed the directions for “cage set-up,” and grabbed one of my old pink baby blankets from the linen closet and draped it over the bunny’s cage with the tender love of a mother. “Goodnight little one,” I whispered.

  That night in bed, visions of the kit clinging to her siblings kept me from sleeping. Imaginary nocturnal cries haunted me. At midnight, I took my first trip down the stairs to check on the bunny. I found her cowering in the corner of the cage, probably afraid of the dark. So we cuddled for a bit before I went back up to bed. My two o’ clock sojourn down to the kitchen was noticeably more difficult as the nighttime stiffness and pain had taken over my body. Tickled pink to see our baby bunny, we cuddled again for about a half hour, during which she peed on my soft bathrobe. By three o’clock, she was restless and had no interest in snuggling. She wriggled with verve and energy while I struggled to keep my eyes open. When I let her down on the living room rug, she tore across the room like she had just escaped from prison. I suppose she had. She gnawed at the white moldings, chewed the skirt to the sofa, and nibbled the shoes I had left under the coffee table—all while leaving a trail of poop along her path of destruction, little brown balls. But I didn’t care. She was so adorable. She popped onto my lap for a split second and then returned to her next task on hand—chinning everything and marking her territory.

  When I could barely keep my eyes open any longer, I tried putting her in the cage but she swung her front and back legs wildly as if she were about to fly and fell headfirst into her pile of hay. In an instant she rolled over and landed on all fours with a small thud. Then she looked up at me adoringly. As I leaned down, she grabbed the rungs of the cage with her tiny front paws and stuck her nose through, staring at me with pleading eyes. Clearly, she didn’t want to be locked up, alone without her siblings. I curled up on the floor next to her cage, and she nuzzled her soft face against my hand. My heart started to flutter.

  “Do you miss your siblings?” I asked softly. “This is your new home now.”

  I started to hum, and her head dropped down and her back paws relaxed beneath her body. She tapped my nose gently with her left paw and stared at me intently. No whining. No barking. But guilt struck a motherly chord, and for the next half hour I lay on the hard tile floor next to her cage, talking to her and stroking her soft fur. I didn’t care that my body ached. Luckily, for the bunny’s sake, waking up half a dozen times during the night was nothing out of the ordinary for me. Insomnia was just one of the many other frustrating symptoms of fibromyalgia that I had learned to live with. After about an hour of lying in such an uncomfortable position, I decided I had better get some sleep before my chronic pain worsened.

  Regretfully, I whispered my final goodnight. The last image I saw was her tiny pink nose poking out from under the blanket.

  I woke up a few hours later to the usual “Good morning, egg,” Ward’s pet phrase for me since the early days of our marriage. It was my barometer for how things were going; it was all about the tone. Today’s was monotone.

  I slipped out of bed and walked downstairs, smiling mischievously. My mind wandered to our kit—her ginger-colored fur and tiny paws. Drifts of snow were piled up along the balusters lining the colonial-style deck and the snow blowing off the roof of the storage shed was glitterlike. Julie and Chris were hovering over the bunny’s cage. Chris had that early morning look—tussled hair and dried crusty sleep in the corner of his eyes. Julie sported her Hello Kitty pajamas and feline slippers. They both looked irresistibly adorable—as did our new bunny.

  She was balancing a piece of hay between her tall ears while she nibbled on another—like an act from a circus. Her mouth shimmied from side to side as her two sets of top molars aligned themselves with the single set of molars on the bottom. But her cage was anything but cute. It looked like a cyclone had hit it. Hay and food pellets were scattered everywhere, and her toys were haphazardly piled up in the corner. She must have thrown a tantrum after I went up to bed.

  We would quickly learn that a rabbit’s days are framed by the rising and setting of the sun. Crepuscular animals are most active at dawn and dusk, as well as awake during the nighttime between. It was clear that the bunny had not slept at all.

  Chris no sooner had let the rabbit out of her cage when Julie screamed, “She’s my bunny!” I stood on the sidelines, hoping to remain uninvolved. Unexpectedly, Chris made the hand-off of our new prized possession to Julie ever so gently and without much fuss. The bunny started squirming wildly in Julie’s arms.

  “Rabbits are skittish animals,” I said to the kids, quoting Loretta from Scuffy’s, while praying silently that Julie would not drop the bunny. “You need to spend time with them on the floor where they feel most comfortable—on all fours.”

  They lowered themselves to the ground slowly, huddled around the bunny as if they wanted to discuss something I shouldn’t hear.

  “You need to earn a bunny’s trust slowly,” I continued. “It doesn’t come naturally to them. They are very different than dogs or cats.” I had absorbed more of Loretta’s CliffsNotes on how to raise a house rabbit than I’d thought while I stood in the store, completely mesmerized by the magical bunny with the coal-colored eyes.

  When the kids broke their huddle, Julie let the bunny loose from her grasp. Surprisingly, the rabbit didn’t move. I crouched down, tapped her super-soft backside playfully, and perched my head on Julie’s shoulder. After a few seconds, the baby bunny reached her front paws out on the hard tile tentatively, one at a time, as if testing the temperature of the ocean.

  “She’s being cautious because bunnies don’t like hard surfaces,” Chris explained, repeating another fun fact we had learned at the pet store.

  Despite the hardness of the tile, once our kit got her bearings, she began racing in and out around the legs of the table and chairs like she was running through a maze. She popped up sharply numerous times, facing different directions—the behavior that is called binkying or popcorning—and then scurried down the hallway toward the bathroom, sniffing the molding along the way. She charged forward and slid across the marble floor, and then crashed into the wall behind the toilet. Her tiny body sunk to the floor like it had been deflated. She started shaking like a leaf, her tall ears flopped down toward her backside. Her nose was twittering in fast motion.

  Loretta’s words flashed through my mind. “They can easily injure their backs! Bunnies are prone to heart attacks if they are frightened!”

  I whisked the bunny up and cuddled her on my chest beneath my bathrobe. I could feel my heart pounding along with hers as she remained frightfully still.

  “Is she hurt, Mom?” Julie asked anxiously. I moved the bunny’s limbs slowly—checking for fractures—and palpated her small body for punctured organs. I inspected the vertebrae on her spine like a skilled orthopedic surgeon. In an attempt to ward off hysteria from the kids, I responded, “I think she’s fine.” Secretly, I worried that the bunny would be scarred for life. In less than eighteen hours, she had been taken away from her siblings and forced to navigate her way around hard floors, and now she had had her first brush with disaster.

  But any semblance of empathy disappeared from Julie’s demeanor when the bunny, seemingly making a miraculous recovery, started wriggling to get free. Julie plucked the bunny out of my arms and put her back on the floor. Our kit circled the table and chairs with more vim and vigor, and then she flipped her body with a twist and headed back toward the bathroom. She stopped dead in her tracks as she approached the marble tile, and then swung her hind legs up and turned back toward us.

  “We have a baby Einstein,” I exclaimed, certain I had just seen the first glimpse of our new family member’s intelligence.

  “Don’t get carried away, Mom,” replied Chris. “Rabbits
aren’t that smart.”

  I knew I would have to prove Chris wrong.

  Ward walked down the stairs hurriedly, already late for a meeting, and asked what all the commotion was, as if he had forgotten I’d brought home a bunny the night before. He looked handsome in his gray tailored suit, white shirt, and pink paisley tie.

  “We have a third baby Einstein,” I said, beaming like a proud parent. “I picked the pedigree of the herd.”

  He smiled but barely engaged me, except to remind me that it was Julie who actually shared Albert Einstein’s birthday, March 14.

  We all sensed his coolness as he walked briskly out the door. The kids looked at me quizzically.

  “No worries,” I said. “He’ll come around.”

  Chapter 3

  “Usted compró un conejo?” Tina asked.

  You bought a bunny?

  “Sí, sí. I did,” I said.

  I pulled away from the bus stop where I picked up Tina, the loving and caring woman who helped us keep some semblance of order in our home after we reluctantly accepted the realization that I wasn’t going to return to my “type A on steroids” self any time soon. Tina, a native of Honduras, had came to the United States on a work visa and was granted permanent residence by President Clinton after the devastating Hurricane Mitch struck in 1998. She lived with us part-time and had become part of our family. A godsend in every way, we had all grown to love her.

  Tina had dark brown hair and a solid build with broad shoulders, and she walked with a slight limp due to a childhood hip injury. Her skin was slightly weathered from years of tropical sun, and her rough hands were a product of farming and domestic work. She had a smile that seemed to be etched permanently on her round face and a gentleness and a warmth that radiated from her being. She was quite social, a necessary attribute to fit in with my incredibly not-so-shy family. She also had a great sense of humor. I thoroughly enjoyed conversing with her in Spanish rather than in English, which drove my family crazy. They were never quite sure what I was saying about them! (Though it didn’t take Ward long to figure out that “muy mal hombre” was not a compliment.)

  Tina and I were deeply engrossed in Baby Einstein details when I spotted red flashing lights coming up behind me in my rearview mirror. I pulled over onto the snow-covered shoulder of the road and waited for the officer.

  “License and registration, please.” He said, very businesslike. I apologized for speeding and blamed my infraction on the excitement over buying a bunny. There was a stray bag of hay on the backseat in plain sight. Tina tried to hide her shock at my ridiculous admission and muttered under her breath, “Loco en la cabeza.” I thought I saw the hint of a chuckle on the policeman’s face as he walked back to his vehicle.

  When he returned, he was holding a picture of a black-and-white lop-eared bunny in his hand, not a ticket.

  “His name is Oreo,” he said, with a silly grin. “I keep his picture in my wallet along with my children’s.”

  Oreo was the runt of a litter who had been bred in South Jersey. “Lop-eared bunnies are very smart,” he remarked, radiating with pride.

  It seems we’re all alike when it comes to bragging about our children and our pets.

  He stood there on the side of the road for about ten minutes, giving me helpful tips on keeping a bunny indoors as though he knew as much about rearing a bunny as he did the law. Finally, he extended his hand to shake mine.

  “Have a great day and enjoy your new bunny. She will win your heart!”

  I drove home, winding around the snow-covered reservoir, thinking, What were the chances of being pulled over by a police officer who had a pet bunny?

  I made my way through our vastly wooded, picturesque suburban town of Franklin Lakes, nestled just twenty-two miles outside of the metropolis of Manhattan. We had the luxury of living out in the country while still being part of the hustle and bustle of a big city, accessible in half an hour, depending on traffic. Named after Benjamin Franklin’s grandson, our town had ten thousand residents and boasted top-notch schools and a keen sense of community. As I drove, the sun reflected off the snowcapped trees, nearly blinding me. Heavy snow-covered branches had formed a beautiful white canopy over the streets. Squirrels were scurrying across the wires, knocking off clumps of snow that formed a mist of white when they landed on my windshield with a thump.

  When I pulled into the driveway, I noticed a mother and two baby deer munching on the barely visible tips of the holly bushes at the top of the hill in our backyard. I instantly envisioned our kit with her mother and siblings.

  When Tina and I walked into the kitchen, we found the baby bunny plumping like a hen in the corner of her cage. She had kicked up a pile of litter, forming almost a pillow for herself. She made the cutest yawn when she saw me; her tiny front teeth reminded me of Chiclets. The kit stretched her soft body forward slowly, and then she lunged unexpectedly toward her water bottle and started lapping at the ball on the bottom of the spout with her head sideways, eyeing me. I waited patiently while she quenched her thirst. Then I scooped her up, barely able to wait another moment to cuddle with her. I kissed the side of her sweet face. She smelled like the fragrant pine shavings of her litter. She was light as a feather.

  As she nuzzled her damp nose against mine, shivers went down my spine. I looked endearingly into her eyes, then outside the house at the remnants of the snowstorm. The icicles that hung from the gutters above the kitchen windows were melting from the warmth of the sun, creating small crevices in the snow beneath them. My heart, too, was melting. The bunny’s whiskers tickled my neck. She was simply enchanting. I caressed her tall ears and could feel her body slowly relax against my cashmere sweater. Within minutes, my body had also begun to relax in tandem, and I noticed that my muscles suddenly didn’t seem quite so sore. For me, my daily grind of getting up in the morning and performing simple tasks such as reaching for the coffee pot or opening the refrigerator for the cream increased my muscle pain. Opening the car door, climbing in, and turning my body to back up the car were difficult chores that pulled on my sore muscles. But today, my muscles seemed to feel a little different.

  I let out a sigh of contentment. Tina, a mother herself, recognized the look.

  “You really did want another baby, didn’t you?”

  If I had only known what the bunny and I would come to mean to each other in the coming years.

  Chapter 4

  The packed yellow school bus pulled up at 3:15 p.m. Within minutes, the house was under siege. Backpacks flew and snow gear formed a pile in the foyer, left to melt on the floor.

  It was the bunny’s debut. The neighborhood children ran into the kitchen and swarmed the bunny’s cage while Chris opened the front latch. Without a moment’s hesitation, the baby bunny raced out and ran headfirst into a wall of feet. She backed up and binkied, switching directions three times, igniting gleeful sounds, then turned abruptly and started nibbling the masses of toes. When she got bored, she scampered off toward the dining room, blissful and without a care in the world. Relying on my own reflexes, I flew after our pint-sized lagomorph, the children racing behind me. But the bunny was faster. She slipped through my hands and bolted to the tea-dyed green and burgundy Persian carpet like a true prey animal, where she started nibbling the fringe on the rug so fast that, within seconds, an inch was missing. Her tiny mouth swished from side to side like she was rinsing her mouth with Listerine on high speed.

  “Not the fringe!” I shrieked, whisking her up in my arms.

  She looked up at me with her adorable eyes, as if to say, “Is there a problem? You thought I was cute last night when I was nibbling.”

  Chris clearly had an agenda for the day. He quickly asked if they could bring the bunny up to the family room, which doubled as a playroom. I hesitated, not sure I was ready to leave our bunny in the hands of such a raucous group. I looked at the missing fringe from the rug. “Sure,” I said.

  While I had never considered myself an overprotective mother,
I felt a compelling need to make sure the bunny stayed safe, but I didn’t want to be too overbearing. I assembled a tray of snacks and brought them up to the children. Then, to bide my time, I dusted the bookcases and coffee tables downstairs, replaced a few light bulbs, and tightened loose knobs on the cabinet doors. Then I went back up to the playroom and ran my stand-up seven-pound Dirt Devil Lite vacuum cleaner at the far end where some soil had spilled over from one of the plants. I made a mental note to get rid of the plants. Light housekeeping was about all I could manage without dramatically changing my pain level from tolerable to bad.

  “Mom, bunnies hate loud noises!” Julie screeched, as the bunny appeared out of nowhere and hopped onto the head of the vacuum. Before I could hit the off button, our kit had started nibbling the plastic handle—curious rather than terrified. The kids quickly formed a circle around me, laughing heartily at the scene. The bunny showed no signs of stress from the noise of the vacuum or the chaos from the children.

  “Mom, pleeeease, we want our privacy,” Chris pleaded in between laughter.

  Reluctantly, I retreated to the kitchen, dragging one of the chairs over toward the stairway so I could hear them better. When I felt satisfied that things were going smoothly, I started a simple dinner—stuffed peppers. We all loved stuffed peppers, except for Ward. We knew the story by heart—his mother used to stuff peppers with rice as an economy meal when his father was out of work and they had no money to buy meat.

  “Sometimes, we ate just the peppers without any filling,” he’d say for the umpteenth time. By that point, we were usually rolling our eyes and raising our hands as if to say, enough. “When we were desperate, she would just put a picture of a pepper on our plate,” he’d finish, ignoring our pleas for him to stop.

  I returned to the playroom an hour later to check on the bunny. I looked around for any possible infractions, specifically little brown balls or chewed items. There were none—yet. Our kit was playing among the children, seemingly comfortable in her new home as they tickled and petted her endlessly. She plopped into a wicker basket and started nibbling on one of Julie’s Beanie Baby magazines.