Bunny Boy and Me

by Nancy Laracy

  Fluffett was smart, too. I attribute how Fluffett was able to figure out that Chris was the more sensitive and outwardly emotional child to the innate intelligence of rabbits. If she wanted to cuddle and hear how sweet or beautiful she was without any filter, Fluffett would scamper over to Chris, looking to be picked up. Conversely, when she was in a feisty mood, she would headbutt Julie’s feet until Julie scooped her up under the armpits and nuzzled her face up against the bunny’s twittering nose, saying to my horror, “You’re cute. You’re fat. You’re really dumb, but I love you,” in her sweetest candy-coated voice.

  As far as Ward was concerned, his carefully orchestrated false indifference toward Fluffett disappeared the third or fourth day she was in the house. If she nuzzled on his shoe while he worked at his desk, he would reach down and give her an affectionate pet. Other times, he would put her on the desk and let her romp around with reckless abandon, disturbing his piles of papers.

  Instinctively, Fluffett knew she had won my heart. I couldn’t get enough of her as she twirled around the house, almost floating through the air like a ballerina. I turned a blind eye to her chewing and her mischief, enduring fierce criticism from my family. We kept a can of white trim paint nearby for all the moldings she nibbled and hung garbage bags on doorknobs for remnant pieces of household items she ruined. I picked up her stray brown pellets off the floor like they were dust balls and cleaned her cage with a smile, while I chastised Julie and Chris when their rooms were messy. I raced to the store when her yogurt drops ran low but often ran out of Ward’s favorite ice cream. There were edible baskets and balls made out of hay scattered around the house, and she had a plastic bunny that wobbled from side to side. Whenever she learned a new task, such as coming when we called her or climbing up on our laps when we patted our thighs, we would put one yogurt drop inside the bunny, and the drop would pop out if she knocked into it. Bunny saltshakers and knickknacks were cropping up slowly around the house, driving Ward crazy. Ward hated clutter almost as much as he hated bickering.

  It was a funny thing. This tiny rabbit had turned our house upside-down—or was it right-side-up? I couldn’t help but wonder why I’d felt compelled to buy a rabbit that day in the middle of a blizzard, as if it meant something greater than anything I could imagine.

  • • •

  Like in previous years, Franklin Lakes would become a ghost town this time of the year when families would leave for the winter vacation—except for their pets. They were left behind. With most of our block away either at a warm destination or a ski resort, Chris capitalized upon all the opportunities to pet sit, and our Georgian colonial had been transformed into an exotic pet menagerie. He would make house calls on our street for the dogs or cats, and we would board the hamsters, lizards, and hermit crabs. Manson, our neighbor’s vicious guinea pig, would be our main challenge. Chris was determined to tame him before the family returned from skiing. I hoped so—I had promised Chris, who was disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to go on our annual vacation, that we would have a fun-filled staycation full of adventures. Luckily, I had Fluffett around to help.

  Living in an affluent town had its advantages. Chris, with great forethought, took full advantage of the generosity of the Franklin Lakes families and upped the standard rate for pet sitting—a capitalist in the making. But with affluence also comes quirks. If your neighbor had a spaniel, they referred to their pooch as a Cavalier King Charles and got personally insulted if you called it anything else. And so it was that Fluffett became our “red satin of the lagomorph species” instead of just “a bunny.”

  A few days into the break, the house looked and smelled like a pet store. Cages were lined up in the kitchen and supplies were stacked in the hallway that led to the bathroom. It was a downright mess. Our moods had turned silly and relaxed from the additional rest and the absence of any scholastic or sports schedule. Feeding our never-ending appetites with homemade traditions, including our family-famous seven-layer magic bars, homemade Mickey Mouse waffles, cinnamon buns, and grilled cheeses made with three different cheeses, tomato, and avocado, made everyone more jovial. Food played a crucial role in the Laracy family. Eating was not just a basic need for our household of four; it was an experience in itself. We often called ourselves the Food Family, and we demonstrated our culinary obsession with elaborate, themed parties I often threw, complete with customized homemade goods.

  Keeping track of the feeding schedule for the animals was no small task, but it was fun. Chris made sure that we stayed on track and that no one was overfed. Except us Laracys.

  “I handle all the snacks while the animals are under my care,” Chris said with a seriousness that told us not to question his authority. “Rules are rules.” He was determined for his new endeavor to be successful and for word to get out that he was a competent pet sitter. Being the ultimate rule-breaker himself, Chris’s comment puzzled but charmed me.

  Because our week had become all about the animals, I decided to make a second attempt at litter training Fluffett with the help of the children, since our first run had only been partially successful. Julie and Chris ran to find the video camera, giving Fluffett a pep talk and sounding like cheerleaders for the middle school basketball team, while I prepared her cage. Our moods couldn’t be dampened even when we realized the video camera wasn’t working. We just focused on the task on hand.

  Fluffett skipped the curious, incessant sniffing around her cage that she had done the first time. She hopped into the litter pan and plumped in it, sitting like a sphinx again. We watched patiently while she munched on her hay furiously, the hay disappearing quickly as if it were being sucked into a wood chipper instead of a one-pound rabbit. With a lone strand left, Fluffett leaned forward on her front paws like she was about to do a handstand. Then, she very deliberately lifted her hind end up and peed.

  Our applause rivaled anything I had heard at the US Open. I looked over at Chris and mouthed silently, “Baby Einstein.” Julie and Chris held hands and gazed at their baby bunny with obvious pride, their faces glowing.

  Fluffett knew she had done something good. She pranced around her cage with her head high, turning it from side to side like she was modeling an Easter bonnet. Then she binkied in several directions and spun so high that she crashed into the top of her cage. Instantly, she transformed from “happy” bunny to “hostile” bunny, like I had been accused of doing at times. Clawing at the rungs of the cage, she bared her teeth for the first time. Our domestic bunny had gone postal. Chris swept her up and tried to calm her down by stroking the ultra soft spot behind her ears. She thumped her hind legs on his chest, making a loud noise. Rabbits thump when they are frightened, angry, or in pain; or if they want to demand your attention. We would learn much later that a non-dwarf, fully grown rabbit could have broken Chris’s ribs by thumping.

  Chris tightened his grasp just enough to keep Fluffett from falling and whispered into her sandy-colored ears while he softly kissed the side of her face. “Good job, Fluffett. You’re the best bunny in the world.”

  Fluffett dropped her head and nuzzled it between the buttons on his shirt. Her body relaxed instantly. Julie and I joined in Fluffett’s praise, reciting enough positive adjectives to write a bunny thesaurus. Fluffett began pawing at Chris’s buttons playfully. She flipped her tiny body in three or four different directions before burrowing in his lap like she was digging for gold. She rolled over on her back, her hind legs and front paws pointing upward, like a big old—dare I say the word—dog.

  Then Chris committed the cardinal sin: he started rubbing the gauzy fur on her belly. Rabbits hate to have their bellies or chins rubbed, and I fully expected Fluffett to bolt. Instead, before my own eyes, she raised her four legs up and spread them outward, prostrate, like any attention-seeking dog, and fell into a trance. We watched in total disbelief. Chris had gotten the dog he always wanted; it had just come disguised as a rabbit.

  For the next few weeks, Fluffett’s litter habits were unpredictabl
e. She had stopped peeing on hard surfaces, but soft surfaces were still a crapshoot. She slipped up one night while she was lying on my chest. I had on my softest Old Navy hooded fleece sweatshirt. Ward and I were watching The Sopranos.

  “What can I say? The show is too violent!” I joked when I felt the warm liquid seep through the fleece.

  I changed my clothes, thinking that life with a bunny on board was proving to be very different than any of us had imagined. Fluffett, unknowingly, was offering us some unique bunny wisdom about how to make the best of things and showing us why life is great with a bunny around.

  Chapter 6

  Spring was soon upon us. Purple and yellow crocuses poked up from the ground and small patches of green grass pushed their way through the old, matted-down winter grass. The sun had resumed its seasonal position in the sky, bringing with it more daylight and warmth, which never failed to improve my outlook on life. Mounds of snow had finally melted, giving us hope that spring would actually arrive on schedule.

  In March, I dedicated my time and energy to planning Julie’s twelfth birthday party. The theme was American Idol, our family’s guilty pleasure and the show we loved to watch together, just as the Buchalskis would gather to watch The Monkees and The Partridge Family when I was a child. Birthdays were a big event in our house, a tradition I inherited from my childhood home. Having a near-Christmas birthday on December 19 didn’t make it any less special for me. Mom and Dad always made sure I had a themed party, plenty of presents, and my favorite meal—simple breaded chicken cutlets, homemade French fries, and strawberry shortcake. To carry on the tradition that gave me so much joy, each year I would put my creative talents to the test, organizing themed parties such as Care Bears, My Little Ponies, Power Rangers, Pokémon, and Batman. And of course, since we were the Food Family, birthday parties were a chance for me to show off my culinary skills.

  Despite this year’s American Idol theme, Julie had a primary focus: Fluffett, who ended up taking center stage. I brushed Fluffett’s fur, which had thickened significantly, smoothed her ears, and tied a pink, sparkly sequined bow around her neck. Fluffett was my chance to indulge in my girlish nature. I felt like I was primping one of Julie’s old American Girl Dolls!

  To my delight, Fluffett was admired by all the guests. Our house was filled with loud, incessant giggling—over my artfully crafted cake that was supposed to resemble a microphone but that turned out to look more like a part of the male anatomy I cannot mention!—to loud and theatrical amateur karaoke and fun-filled dancing. Simon Cowell would certainly have made some harsh comments. Meanwhile, Fluffett bounced around the family room like she was on a trampoline, sniffing purses or tossing shoes with her teeth, all while tripping on wires and tripping the girls.

  After an ill-fated and temporary jaunt in our outdoor jacuzzi—the girls’ splashes had caused water to overflow, cutting the electricity—and a last hurrah of “swimsuit karaoke,” the party drew to a close. It was finally time to rest. My body ached from head to toe from all the party planning and preparations, but it was worth it for Julie. I retreated to the bedroom and let myself fall backward onto the bed, forcing a just-as-exhausted Fluffett to hang out with me on our luscious down comforter.

  I kissed her fluffy tail. I did noogies on the top of her head and made loud raspberries on the side of her face. I whispered, “I love you, my little girl. Your round little rump, your wiggling nose, and your furry thumper paws.” Fluffett tried to escape my affections, so I let her wriggle free. She burrowed into the blue-and-white floral comforter, as she would have in the wild. She tried to flip the throw pillows with her head, but they ended up on top of her. “Peek a boo!” I exclaimed, lifting them off. I scooped her up and tucked her in between my knees, and she laid on her back while I rubbed her belly. Then she wriggled away to burrow again. Was she trying to burrow her way to freedom or safety? I let her use up some of her baby energy and watched as deep crevices began to form all over the comforter. When I grabbed her from behind playfully, she scurried onto my chest and relaxed her thumper paws. Either she’d realized her attempts to flee were futile or she was tiring out. She nibbled the sequins on my blouse, pulling one or two off. It was just like having a baby again. The warmth and softness of her body was the perfect remedy for my sore muscles. I could feel the stress almost evaporating from my body as I became oblivious to my surroundings.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  I looked up, embarrassed. Ward was standing in the doorway. I wasn’t sure how long he had been there.

  “Fluffett and I were just relaxing.”

  He raised his eyebrows, skeptically.

  “I’m not gonna lie. I was telling Fluffett how special she was.”

  “I heard it all, Nance. I should be that lucky,” he replied, with all the bite of a stand-up comedian.

  • • •

  Before we knew it, it was Easter. The tips of the cherry trees looked like they had been dipped in icing, their pink and white buds waiting to burst open. The canopy of green from the oak trees that would soon blanket our yard was beginning to form.

  It was a beautiful, sundrenched April day. The house was still quiet. Fluffett and I were sitting together on the wingback chair next to the fireplace in the living room. Through the window, fair weather clouds were floating across the bright blue sky. The sound of birds chirping outside filled the room.

  I savored the snugness of her furry body. Her back paws and belly leaned close against my breastbone while her face and front paws nestled in my neck. I talked to her about many things. My Easter memories as a child. My health challenges. Some of our crazier Laracy moments. And Flop. A feeling of contentment had wrapped itself around me and Fluffett. My heart melted with happiness as she purred for the first time—the subtle vibration against my skin felt delicious. From everything I had read, purring is a rare expression of a rabbit’s deep love. It is a sign of utter bliss, which described the way I, too, felt at that moment.

  I thought about my Easters as a child. While I loved rummaging through my Easter basket, I was almost as excited to see the dress and matching coat and hat my mother had made for my sister and me, using the beautiful wool and cotton fabrics her sister sent her every year for Christmas. I can still remember the look of joy on my mother’s face when that large brown box arrived every year in mid-December. Her eyes would light up, dreaming of the clothes she would be able to make for us girls and herself. Mom was a beautiful seamstress, and she loved to sew. “I am happy when I am sewing,” she would say, leaning over her Singer machine. She did most of sewing at night when we were in bed. “Don’t stay up too late, Anne,” my dad would say. But we knew she did.

  That Easter in the Laracy home, Julie and Chris came rushing downstairs to three Easter baskets on our kitchen counter. They were brimming over with candy and other sundries.

  “There’s a basket for Fluffett!” I could hear the surprise and happiness in their voices.

  “Happy Easter!” they shrieked, hopping across the living room like two jack rabbits. Chris whisked Fluffett up without any warning, kissed my cheek, and carried her into the kitchen to see her bright-pink and lime-green woven basket full of bunny treats. The table was already set for breakfast—four pastel-colored placemats in yellow, green, lavender, and pink, along with matching plates. On one end of the table, I had placed porcelain rabbit salt and pepper shakers; to the left of the plates were matching porcelain bunny napkin rings stuffed with striped pastel cloth napkins my mother had made for me when we were first married. I always took special care to create a welcoming home for my family. It gave me great pleasure.

  Ward rounded the corner in time to see Chris show Fluffett her very first Easter basket. She bypassed the giant economy-sized box of yogurt drops, egg-shaped wicker treats, and other items I had given great time and thought to purchasing, and instead lunged toward the chocolate in the kid’s baskets with an infectious enthusiasm that only a bunny can muster on Easter.

  “Grab
her!” I screamed. Julie caught Fluffett in midair just as she was about to topple off the counter.

  “If she falls, she can break her back,” I blurted out, a sense of panic rushing over me. “And she can’t have the chocolate. Caffeine can give her a heart attack.” Just as it is for dogs, chocolate is deadly for rabbits.

  “Chill, Mom, I caught her,” said Julie, shrugging. “And do you really think we would give up our chocolate without a fight?” She grinned. “Happy Easter.”

  “Let’s take some pictures with Fluffett,” said Chris, unable to control his excitement.

  Did I hear him right? I thought to myself. Julie and Chris always hated having their pictures taken. But this was their first Easter with a real rabbit. Even their baskets of candy took a back seat.

  Our Easter photoshoot was like something right out of Hollywood. We took dozens of creative (and not-so-creative) photos of our new rabbit. Fluffett plumped in her basket. Fluffett on the piano bench beside some sheet music. Fluffett cuddled up on the sofa with a stuffed rabbit. Fluffett perched behind the fireplace screen. Julie and Chris were in a few of the pictures, but make no mistake, Fluffett was the main star. She was Diana Ross, and the kids were happy to be the background singers.

  Finally, I asked if I could be in one of the photos.

  Like a seasoned mother, I cradled Fluffett against my soft pink blouse, and a lone tear of joy trailed down my cheek. Life had changed so much for us in such a short time. I truly believed that our enchanting bunny was a gift from God—and she would be for more reasons that I would soon come to realize. A gift we had learned to nurture and dote on. A gift who brought so much joy and relief to our lives. And a gift whose list of potential babysitters, while we planned to go away for our spring break vacation, would become longer than the Food Family’s weekly grocery list.

  • • •

  During previous vacations, we had boarded Sunny, our Australian bearded dragon, at the pet store Scuffy’s due to her unusual diet of live worms and crickets, which deterred friends and family from pet sitting. But boarding Fluffett was never an option. She needed much more socialization and exercise than Sunny, who preferred to spend the bulk of her time basking contentedly on a log or under her sunlamp. Fluffett commanded our full attention, unless she was napping. I suppose I had taught her to be that way.