by Nancy Laracy
My mother and sister, who lived together, would have been the perfect choice to pet sit Fluffett, except for the fact that they had a cat. Every spring, their friendly, domestic feline turned into a wild animal on the prowl for poor defenseless kits huddled in their nests. Each season, Tigergirl would carry one or two baby bunnies home in her jaws and drop them on the porch with a look of satisfaction. Just the thought of it made me shudder.
As the days passed, the vetting process became intense. The discussions turned hostile. We all had a different opinion on who fit the bill. Finally, I used my veto power to pick the one family in town who met the rigorous standards I had set. Keith and Cindy Funsch, our clean and nurturing churchgoing neighbors, had two lovely, calm children and no predatory pets. The other contender, my neighbor Karen, was a past bunny owner who vied for the assignment, claiming to have far better credentials. However, vivid tales of her outdoor rabbit, Jaws, and Manson the notorious guinea pig hindered her chances. Less-than-cordial phone calls had been exchanged between Karen and the Funsch family, and by the time we dropped Fluffett off at the Funsches’, the neighbors were barely speaking.
“We’re honored to have her,” said Cindy, as the kids and I paraded into her kitchen.
“Where would you like the cage?” Chris asked politely, slipping and crashing into the kitchen counter—making me cringe as I quickly apologized. Julie dragged in a duffle bag on wheels that was full of Fluffett’s supplies. I carried the princess.
“You’re coming back, right?” Cindy asked, eyeing the humongous duffle bag.
“It’s just a few things.” I smiled.
Cindy and I moved to the family room to discuss the more elaborate details of Fluffett’s care. As I took the list of elaborate instructions and phone numbers where we could be reached out of my pocket, I chuckled at my own madness and ridiculous rules.
“Now,” I said, turning and looking into her eyes to make sure I had her full attention, “a rabbit needs different care than a dog or cat.”
Instructions for Fluffett’s Care
1. Never leave Fluffett alone or unattended when she is out of her cage. She’ll chew almost anything, valuable or not. Keep her away from wires and stairs. They’re both off limits. Please don’t undermine me!
2. Never discipline Fluffett.
3. Please don’t pick Fluffett up by the scruff of her neck. She is not a wild rabbit. Support her hind legs. Be careful that she doesn’t use your sofa as a trampoline to bounce off—and fall and break her back. Rabbits are fragile creatures. Feel free to snuggle with her, but in moderation. Remember, I’m her mother.
4. Empty the litter pan daily and clean with the Johnson’s Baby Soap, which is also in the duffle bag. Keep the pink blanket on the top of the cage at night because she loves her blankie. Don’t substitute one of yours as she will chew it to shreds through the rungs of the cage.
5. Fill her food bowl halfway daily with timothy hay pellets and pile a ginormous amount of hay on top of her litter. She’s not a pony, but she grazes like one.
6. She can have the carrot tops in the small cooler as a treat, but not the carrots. I repeat, the tops only, not the whole carrot. Carrots have too much sugar and will give her diarrhea. I never did trust Bugs Bunny.
7. Feel free to give Fluffett some of her new chew toys, which are buried somewhere among her other supplies. The pink raspberry-flavored yogurt drops need to be rationed. Only one a day. They’re candy, cleverly named, and packaged to appear healthy.
8. Fill the water bottle with fresh, cold water each day. She snubs her nose if the water is room temperature. Bottled water is fine!
9. Use the sound machine when you go to bed. Rabbits are crepuscular animals. Yes, that’s a big, new word, right? That means they are very active between dusk and dawn. She won’t be sleeping while you are—trust me.
Thanks so much and have fun!
I looked up with a silly grin. “That should do it. Any questions?”
“Just make sure that your cell phone is charged,” Cindy laughed.
We walked back to the kitchen where Julie, Chris, and the Funsch children were sitting on the floor watching Fluffett acclimate to her surroundings. Toys were already scattered around the kitchen, and Fluffett was popcorning around the bar stools that surrounded the granite island.
“It’s time to leave,” I said glumly. Almost instantly, Julie and Chris had the same pained look on their faces. We could barely tear ourselves away. Fluffett would no doubt spend her first day at the Funsches’ licking off the saliva from all our kisses. The lengthy, tearful goodbye reminded me of the day my baby brother, Tom, and his new wife, Audrey, moved to Colorado, leaving the rest of us siblings behind. You would have thought that they were going into exile and that we would never see them again. For better or for worse, my extended family and I were inseparable. We lived close geographically, and our hearts were intertwined. Before Tom moved out west, we siblings had all lived within ten miles of each other. We spent so much of our time together. We would tailgate at West Point Military Academy and go pumpkin or apple picking in the fall. During the winter, we would cut down our Christmas trees together and have “Breakfast with Santa” at one of the children’s schools or go on a train ride through western New Jersey. In the spring, we picnicked at Van Saun Park and hiked to the lake at the top of Ramapo Ridge. We attended each other’s children’s sporting events or dance recitals whenever possible and organized painting parties when someone’s house needed sprucing up. Our bond was indelible, for which we credited our wonderful parents. I routinely thanked my mother for raising five loving and caring children, and I spoke to my father gratefully each day in prayer. I would play my father’s favorite song, “Moon River” by Henry Mancini, on my iPod or pop in the CD I kept in my car whenever I wanted to feel close to him.
So when the kids and I reluctantly finished our goodbyes and left the Funsches’, I played “Moon River” as we drove away. The lyrics never failed to make me happy.
After dropping Sunny off at Scuffy’s, I suggested getting ice cream at Baskin Robbins. I had an ulterior motive—Baskin Robbins shared a space with Dunkin’ Donuts, and I was dying for a hot cup of coffee and also needed to stock up on supplies. I had used up the last grinds, and the thought of not having my morning coffee before we left for the airport the next day was dreadful. A steaming hot cup of half-caffeinated coffee was a comfort drink for me, in particular on the mornings when I woke up immersed in the classic “fibro fog,” a symptom of fibromyalgia that can be described as seeing the world through the milky cover of cataracts. The heat from the mug helped unstiffen my sore hands, and the caffeine would begin to peel away the white veil that was seemingly draped over my eyes. Within fifteen minutes, I would be able to see and process the world with more clarity. Over the last six years, I rolled over every morning yearning for my java. And now, I had Fluffett, too! Already, I missed her. I couldn’t wait to feel her furry paws scurrying over my feet and her twittering nose tickling my toes again.
On the day of our departure to Florida, the pitter-patter of rain on the windows woke me prematurely. I walked quietly downstairs, hoping to organize some last-minute things to ensure a timely, peaceful exit. Getting ready for a big vacation in the Laracy household was intense. There was often chaos and missteps. Ward would jump in at the ninth hour after working an iron day and squeeze his worldly belongings into a small suitcase without breaking a sweat. But packing for the remaining three of us, arranging care for the animals, and micromanaging every detail of the trip was my job. Simple tasks like taking clothes out of drawers or off hangers to cram into a suitcase caused my body to throb. I would have to pace myself and take four Advils. By the time we got to our destination, I was usually ready for more than one welcome drink.
The kitchen felt empty that morning without Fluffett and her cage. A long row of suitcases was arranged along the wall—nine bags of all sizes. I had tried to keep my packing light—five pairs of sandals to go with ten outfits�
�but Julie didn’t try. She had her own opinion now on how she dressed. “Two bathing suits, some shorts, and a couple of T-shirts—that’s all you need,” an exact quote from her father, was not what she had in mind when she packed her suitcase to a point where the zipper almost split open.
We left home on schedule. The traffic was light on the roads, despite the slow, steady rain. Within six hours we were lying on a beach, soaking up the Florida sun. I had already called home twice to check on Fluffett—once when I dodged into the bathroom, feigning an oncoming irritable bowel attack while everyone changed into their bathing suits, and again when I offered to get everyone’s beach towels at the towel hut on the other side of the pool. Fluffett was fine.
Our destination, Marco Island, was a lovely, tropical suburb on the South Gulf coast. Our hotel was located on the beach, overlooking a long jetty that harbored crabs and other crustaceans. The ocean had tiny waves—more like ripples—which disappointed Ward and the kids. Seagulls flew overhead, dotting the blue skies. Colorful umbrellas and sand toys filled the sprawling beaches, and families were everywhere. The swim-up bar was standing room only and the line for the pool floats seemed to be an over-thirty crowd. There was a nature center brilliantly and strategically placed between the beach and the pool, where children could handle crawly creatures or watch nature videos. Next to the nature center was the “arts and craps” center, Julie’s nickname for the colorful, whimsical room where children could stop in to show off their creative talents.
After three days of relaxation, sunshine, and 84° weather, my maintenance dose of the steroid prednisone for joint and muscle pain, which defined my existence, had decreased significantly, and I was feeling more energetic. Less stress and warm weather can temporarily lessen the pain of fibromyalgia, though not necessarily my connective tissue pain, which depends on how my immune system is working at a certain time and how much inflammation is going on inside my body. Having a connective tissue disease is often difficult to explain to most people as it is a combination of lupus and rheumatoid arthritis—essentially, your body has not yet differentiated which full-blown disease you have. At times, I found myself telling others that I had lupus, what most people are painfully familiar with.
I strolled the beaches with Julie and Chris collecting seashells, got caught up on Hollywood gossip reading People magazine, and drained the battery of my iPod listening to my music: theme songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella, Andrew Lloyd Weber’s The Phantom of the Opera, and various tunes by Jimmy Buffett, Bob Marley, the Monkees, and the Partridge Family. And, of course, “Moon River,” sung by Andy Williams. I had also racked up over forty minutes on my cell phone, checking on Fluffett. She was still doing fine.
Everyone was having a great time, except for Ward. His cell phone had not stopped ringing with business issues long enough for him to take a leisurely swim or read more than one chapter of his book. I could see his frustration mounting.
He broke the news to us over lunch.
“I have to leave, Nance. You and the kids can stay. There’s no sense ruining the trip for all of us.”
I looked at him, heartbroken. Our winter trip had been canceled due to my health, and now this!
“But Dad, you can’t leave!!” Chris erupted, springing out of his chair.
“I’m so sorry, kids. It is out of my control.” Ward gathered us into a family huddle. As a corporate transactional attorney, Ward was often at the mercy of whatever merger or acquisition he was working on. But being the great sport and wonderful provider for his family that he was, he took it in his stride.
“I’ll see you at home in a few days. I can make arrangements to help your mom with the luggage on the trip back,” Ward said. He knew how painful it might be for me to lug all the suitcases myself.
“I can handle it,” I replied softly. Hiding my weaknesses from the children was my modus operandi. This time was no different; I would manage.
Julie and Chris’s negotiations with their father continued well into the evening, but they were unsuccessful. He left on a seven o’clock flight the following morning.
“Oh well, Dad’s gone,” said Chris when he stumbled out of bed a few hours later, not content to dwell on the change of plans. “Party time.”
Dashing into the bedroom, he grabbed the pillow out from under Julie’s head and tossed it across the room. I rounded the corner in time to get a mouthful of feathers. Engaging my reflexes, I quickly threw the pillow straight back at him. He dodged my throw, but Julie, a chip off of the old block, jumped out of bed and wrestled him to the ground with one impressive sweep. I had taught her my technique. Growing up with three brothers, I had learned early on that brute strength could only be matched with skill, agility, and speed.
While Julie and Chris enjoyed the vacation time spent with their dad, they knew I had a propensity for being silly and would always be up for a bit of senseless, exhilarating fun. When we were done with our impromptu pillow fight, we pushed the tousled hair out of our eyes and straightened our disheveled clothes. With Julie and me decked out in our bug-eyed sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats, the three of us walked out of the room and down the hallways, incognito, like celebrities, dodging the cleaning staff.
At the pool, I called to check on Fluffett while Julie and Chris tried to drown each other over a shortage of pool floats. Cindy picked up the phone on the fourth ring.
“How’s Fluffett doing, Cindy?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Nancy.”
“I know who it is. It was you the last time and the time before. Fluffett’s fine, Nance. I was just following her up the stairs when the phone rang.”
I wanted to scream, “I said no stairs!” Instead, I said, “Are you keeping an eye on her?”
“Of course,” she said enthusiastically. “Fluffett lets herself in and out of her cage, and she knows her way around downstairs. She also learned how to go up the stairs on the first try.”
In and out of her cage? Up the stairs? I was intrigued. We had never left the door of Fluffett’s cage open, mainly for safety reasons. It had never dawned on me that we might eventually allow her unsupervised freedom. I had chosen the Funsches for their conservative parenting techniques, but they were obviously closet liberals!
“Thanks for taking such good care of her,” I said, hanging up the phone.
As I wandered back to the pool, I was tickled pink by the idea of letting Fluffett roam more freely throughout the house. I could feel excitement bundling up inside of me. Suddenly, the idea of going back to the damp, cool spring weather, which greatly exacerbates my pain, didn’t seem so bad. I had a bunny adventure waiting for me!
A spontaneous, last-minute daytrip to the Florida Everglades ended up being a highlight of our trip, second only to the pillow fight. Our maniacal airboat guide with his “Captain Crazy” hat and boat slithered through the murky water of the Everglades. Alligators big and small lurked beneath the dark swamp water, popping up a little too close to the boat for Julie and me.
“Keep your hands in the boat if you want to go home with two,” said Captain Crazy as Chris leaned over the boat, pointing to a group of gators. “He’s a typical boy, Mom,” the captain said for my benefit. “Just try to relax.”
We, or rather Chris, topped off the trip with a photo opportunity, where he posed clutching a baby gator as if he were Steve Irwin. The following morning, we boarded our seven o’clock flight home. Our flight was packed with snowbirds—senior citizens who lived up north in the spring and summer and who flew south for warmer weathers during the winter. Chris, who had spent many afternoons as a toddler frequenting senior citizen meetings with my mother when I was sick, turned into a one-man comedy show, roaming the aisles and cracking jokes. Julie was on his heels, an ambassador of goodwill, doling out compliments like, “I just love your hair” or “Lavender is definitely your color.” The snowbirds were definitely enchanted with Julie and Chris; I wondered what they’d have thought of Fluffett!
We charged the Funsches’ front door like trick or treaters fighting over a bucket of candy. When we stepped inside, Fluffett poked her head around the kitchen corner, her big ears standing tall. Then she popcorned almost in a straight line across the entrance foyer toward the stairway leading to the second floor. She hopped onto the first step, sat upright on her haunches, and stared at us. I wondered why she didn’t come rushing over and worried she had forgotten who we were; perhaps she was mad we had left her.
Julie and Chris scooped Fluffett up and took turns holding her, nearly as excited as the night we first bought her. When it was my turn, I reveled in the softness of her fur. Her fluttering whiskers felt like a gentle Florida breeze on my cheek. I had missed our kit so much.
“What have you been up to, silly girl?” I asked. “Mischief, I think?” I looked at Cindy.
“Fluffett loves having her freedom,” said Cindy, hanging her head, as if admitting that she had overlooked some of the rules. My instruction “Don’t Undermine Me!” must have not been written in bold letters.
At last, we could go home with our baby bunny.
Chapter 7
“Little Bunny foo foo sitting in the poo poo! Little Bunny foo foo sitting in the poo poo!”
I found myself routinely singing a silly tune to Fluffett whenever she plumped in her litter pan. As I sang, I thought, My god, what’s happening to me? I had completely fallen in love with our charming, mischievous little rabbit. The supposedly shy creature who now headbutted my feet or thumped her hind legs demanding to be picked up; the bunny who whacked the phone if I tried to speak to someone while we were cuddling; the feisty, playful rabbit who would untie my sneakers with her front teeth or belly crawl across the sofa and nibble at my socks or the remote control.