Bunny Boy and Me

by Nancy Laracy

  I had volunteered to teach supplemental Spanish at Chris’s grammar school, but my lesson plans had taken a back burner because of our furry friend’s distractions. I resorted to ad-libbing and retrieving vocabulary and grammar from my long-term memory, which was, fortunately, sharp as a tack. As a child, the nuns at my Catholic grammar school told my parents they thought I had close to a photographic memory. And that I talked too much. Ward and the kids doubted the first statement, but nuns don’t lie. When we heard the same phrase “photographic memory” at Julie’s fifth grade teacher conference, the family’s skepticism about my memory faltered.

  Having a great memory made things easier in many ways. When I was in grade school, times tables, division, spelling, and most facts found their way into my long-term memory with great ease. During high school I was able to work two jobs at a time and still maintain good grades, while many of my friends struggled to study and hold down one job. Prior to motherhood, my twelve-year career in executive recruiting was the perfect vocation for a girl with a chatty personality and a good memory. I could spend an hour interviewing a prospective job applicant, make a few mental notes, and four years later be able to retrieve their information from my brain instead of the filing cabinet. I could remember their personality, education, and work history; what suit, skirt, or hairstyle they wore; and whether or not they had on lipstick or aftershave. I knew who ran what departments within specific corporations and what their salary structure and benefits were without searching through a single job requisition. I worked in a third of the time of the average recruiter, earning top dollar for myself. I ignored the occasional sexist comment dealt to me, such as, “Wear that black skirt with the side slit when you meet the president of ADP” or “Don’t forget to wear your lipstick,” and I reaped the benefits of being one of the first successful women in the tri-state area in that particular male-dominated business. I never had to pay for a business lunch or dinner and was showered with gifts around the holidays and my birthday.

  Now, as I spent my afternoons teaching rote memorization to young school children, I knew it would never be as lucrative as my work in Human Resources. But the happiness and fulfillment I felt with being involved in my children’s schools meant so much to me. I loved being a stay-at-home mom.

  By the end of the school year, my young prodigies had a strong command of Spanish. They could recite their names and ages, as well as what their favorite foods were. They could tell me whether they were “contento o triste” (happy or sad), where they lived, and whether or not they liked watching television or reading books. They also knew a few random words like conejo—bunny!

  On the home front, Fluffett was starting to understand the words we spoke and getting better with each passing day. When I called out, “Fluffett, do you want to go for a ride in the car?” she would scurry out from wherever she was and binky in a small circle around my feet—almost bouncing. Once we were in the car, depending on the time of day, she would roll over and relax on the front seat—the motion of the car putting her almost into a trance—or stretch her body up against the door to look out the window, which she could still barely reach. I cradled her in my left arm while I ran mundane errands like going to the post office or the dry cleaner’s. We intrigued proprietors wherever we went, and I wasn’t shy about striking up a conversation about my lagomorph!

  Fluffett and I had also discovered a game we loved to play—the Bunny Game. It took place in the living room, which was, ironically, off limits to the kids to play in. Rabbits have very good memories and quickly form routines and patterns of behavior. Fluffett would sprawl out on her belly in the archway leading into the room and wait for me to clap my hands.

  “Fluffett, do you want to play the Bunny Game?”

  She would set out in frenzy, hopping around the legs of the piano and the coffee tables. She’d squeeze under the sofa and fly out from the other side, running behind the fireplace screen to catch her breath. I would creep up slowly and clap again. “Where’s the bunny?” She’d charge out with renewed zest and popcorn across the room out of sheer happiness. I am not sure who enjoyed the game more, she or I.

  By midsummer, Fluffett was completely litter trained. She had given up chewing on the things she shouldn’t after Chris scolded her forcibly for shredding his Nintendo wires. The “shock and awe” seemed to have worked; I could have taken parenting lessons from Chris. Without needing our supervision, Fluffett now had free rein over an entire house. Once she figured out that our Georgian colonial was just a giant habitat for her to play in, more aspects of her quirky, endearing personality emerged. She hopped her way through various rooms, settling in preferred spots at different times of the day. She enjoyed stretching out under the dining room chairs in the late morning or on the lower shelves of the plant stands in the sunroom during the afternoon.

  Bunnies are least active during the day, and Fluffett loved to nap, especially in the sunroom. Ceramic bunnies lined the edge of the two moss-green wooden steps that led down into the room. A stuffed sandy-brown bunny that wore different themed sweaters for Easter, Christmas, and July Fourth—a Mother’s Day gift from my sister—sat on the green chenille sofa. Three papier-mâché bunnies, a mother and two babies—Ward’s gift to me after attending a charity event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—stood on top of the armoire. And Fluffett was most comfortable buried among the vast array of new “indestructible” silk plants and flowers (initially, she had torn our old fake plants to shreds as quickly as I’d kill the real ones). Fluffett soaked up the sun’s rays as they poured through the tall windows. Her ginger-colored fur shimmered exquisitely and her dark eyes sparkled like black diamonds. As the shadow of the sun edged its way across the carpet and settled on the wooden floor, she would sniff out cozier pastures. And once she was well rested, she was ready for some serious playtime.

  For the next few hours, she would be underfoot, seeking attention from us or playing by herself. When we were all gathered upstairs in the family room, she’d roll around in her wicker tunnel filled with hay, nearly flipping upside down, or she’d knock her toys in our path, inviting us to play with her. Then, as Julie and Chris’s bedtime approached, like clockwork, Fluffett would exit the family room, hopping slowly down the stairs one step at a time, hoping we wouldn’t see her sneak out.

  Fluffett had already figured out that Ward’s and my bedtime was not much later than the children’s, which meant she would soon be put in her cage. Though I now trusted Fluffett to roam free during the day, I still wasn’t completely comfortable with letting her run free at night. Fluffett hated to be locked up. Some bunnies find comfort in their cozy warren, but not our rabbit. When Fluffett began her nightly descent down the stairs, one of us would follow her. She would dart across the hard kitchen floor and hide under the dining room table, hoping to put off being put in her cage. I found her habits and perception of time intriguing.

  Over time, we worked out a playful routine to catch her. Initially, we tried to outrun her. We would surround the table, each of us at our different posts, while Fluffett weaved through the legs of the table and chairs with the speed and agility of a black diamond skier. We had to be careful how we grabbed her, assuming we were able to, due to her frail musculoskeletal structure, but time and time again she escaped our grasp. We tried waving pieces of apple and yogurt drops in front of her, but she quickly learned not to take the bait. Fluffett was cunning, and before she ran out of steam, she would change strategies, charging forward as if about to come out from one side of the table and stopping short before we could grab her, causing her back end to nearly flip over her head, which was absolutely adorable. She looked like a tuft of ginger-colored cotton blown up into the air. She would then popcorn back the way she had come, clearly trying to fool us. Most times, she did.

  We finally realized that we needed to tire her out, which took time. Luckily, Julie and Chris had plenty of it—they hated bedtime, just like our rabbit. And despite the fact that, by the end of the day, my j
oint and muscle pain would have increased significantly from performing simple daily tasks like emptying the dishwasher, reaching for the pocketbook, or setting the dinner table, I was always more than happy to get down on the rug. It was all part of the game.

  We would sit at our posts and wait. And wait. Eventually, Fluffett would tire herself out. Once she started to binky in slow motion, I knew she was winding down. Julie and Chris would say goodnight, and I would lie there, perfectly still, sometimes for close to ten minutes, waiting patiently for the end of the game. The lawyer in our house would say, “Nance, close the deal.”

  Inching her furry little front paws out, Fluffett would creep out on her belly, butt up, like a tiger ready to pounce. Stealthily, she would slowly and thoroughly sniff my entire torso, from toe to head. When her whiskers tickled my nose, I would snatch her up.

  “Gotcha, silly girl!”

  It worked every time. By that point, I think she wanted to be caught. I would stay curled up on the rug with Fluffett tucked warmly against my chest, listening to her rapid heartbeat. Bunnies’ hearts can beat up to three hundred times per minute. Her twittering nose and fluttering whiskers would tickle my neck like a bird’s feather, delighting me beyond imagination. When it was time to get up, it didn’t seem so difficult with my little furry companion in my arms.

  Could life with Fluffett open me up to an avenue of pain relief I had yet to explore?

  Chapter 8

  One day, Julie and Chris managed to persuade me to take Fluffett outside, though I wasn’t easily sold. I had been stretched out on the couch in the sunroom beneath the ceiling fans that hot summer day, enriching my mind with Richard Adams’s Watership Down, the ultimate read for the most passionate bunny lover. The unique, beautifully descriptive narrative is told from the point of view of a warren of rabbits in Down’s England, documenting their reaction to mankind’s encroachment onto their lifelong turf. I was picturing with great detail the hilarious, and sometimes perilous, journey the bunnies took through foreign landscapes as they tried to burrow their way to safety when Chris came up behind me.

  “I want to take Fluffett outside, Mom. Jessica has an indoor rabbit that plays outside,” said Chris, referring to our new babysitter.

  “I am not sure that’s a good idea, Chris.”

  Then he said it. “Mom, you’re being irrational.”

  I ignored the false accusation, determined to remain rational. I had never considered bringing our bunny outside; we had bears and foxes in the neighborhood. Plus, I feared Fluffett might take off and get lost. But I hesitated too long, and Chris scooped Fluffett up. I yelled for Julie, the more cautious child, for help, but who was I kidding? She flew down the stairs and out the back door to help her brother! Soon, we were all gathered in the backyard.

  Once set down on the grass, Fluffett immediately sat back on her haunches. A gentle breeze ruffled her fur as she gazed off into the distance. She looked exquisite in her natural environment of vast, soft greenery. Fluffett turned her head slowly clockwise, then counterclockwise. Her pink nose was twittering faster than usual, and her eyes had an intensity about them. She was on high alert, observing a world full of edible greenery and underground warrens. And dangerous animals, I thought, worried. I was ready to leap should she make a run for it.

  Once Fluffett had checked out her surroundings to her satisfaction, she ducked her head down and started sniffing the grass. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the mass of green was not only soft and cozy but also delicious. She began nibbling the tips of the blades with the enthusiasm of a wild rabbit. It was beautiful to watch. Her molars went into overdrive, trimming a small patch of the lawn, until it struck me that the chemicals and fertilizers could be dangerous. I clapped my hands to distract her, inadvertently igniting an outdoor version of the Bunny Game. Fluffett popped up and tore across the lawn toward the woods.

  “Split up and surround her,” I yelled, looking frantically in every direction. I didn’t want to frighten her by running after her and screaming. Fluffett circled two massive oak trees, crisscrossing the lawn and carving out figure eights in the grass.

  “Where’s the bunny?” I asked as I approached her, pretending that I, too, was playing the game. Then she spotted the elaborate, colorful swing set Ward had built from scratch for Julie and Chris. She stopped and chinned the wooden posts, which gave us enough time to circle her. She scaled the plastic slide halfway—impressively—then slid down backwards on her belly, landing on the grass in a small heap. She rolled over and started shimmying, her back paws bench pressing as if to say, “Oh yeah, this is where I’m supposed to be.”

  Chris dove next to her and did his own version of the “shake.” They were so cute that I wanted to smother them both with kisses. I laid on the ground and wrapped my body around Chris and Fluffett, forming a cocoon, but she rolled back up on all fours and popcorned high into the air over our manmade enclosure and twirled across the grass, changing directions several times.

  Julie threw a small ball from our bocce ball set across the lawn, yelling, “Get the ball, Fluffett!”

  “She’s not a golden retriever,” said Chris sarcastically. “She’s a bunny. You might try tossing a carrot, Jules.”

  “She’s just as much fun as any dog,” I exclaimed, “and a whole lot less work.”

  Chris shot me his “every boy needs a dog expression,” followed by a half-smile.

  Suddenly, a squirrel came crawling down the trunk of one of the nearby oak trees. We all saw it at the same time. A loud hissing frightened me. Fluffett stopped popcorning and lunged angrily toward the tree. She made a grunting sound as the squirrel crept further down along the thick moss. We had never heard her make such a noise. She charged again, head down, placing her front paws on the protruding roots of the oak tree, grunting and baring her teeth. Then she sat up and thumped. The noise sounded like a bowling ball dropping. Was she challenging the squirrel? The hissing intensified. I told the children to step back. The squirrel whipped its tail violently, smacking the tree trunk, and came within feet of Fluffett—close enough to scare her to near death. At least, that’s what I had thought. Fluffett flipped her hind legs to retreat and landed on the grass in a seated position, where she remained. Her body was eerily still and appeared frozen. Her gaze was empty.

  “Fluffett!” I shrieked. There was not a flutter of a whisker or wiggle of a nose. I presumed she had had a heart attack. I whisked her up and held her stiff body. I thought I might get sick. The muscles beneath her beautiful fur felt like a taut bicep. Her thumper legs were frozen at a ninety-degree angle to her body, and her front paws were curled like she was begging for food. “I think she had a heart attack,” I screamed, feeling the blood rush to my extremities as I went into fight-or-flight mode. Julie was ready to burst into tears, but Chris, strangely, remained calm.

  “It’s a bunny survival technique,” he said, with the assurance of someone who knew bunnies and all of their intricacies. “Fluffett’s playing dead,”

  “What?” It was all I was able to utter as fear overcame me.

  “I read about it on one of the bunny websites. It’s meant to fool a predator, Mom. I promise.”

  Could he possibly be right?

  “God, please protect our bunny,” I begged under my breath as I sat on the swing set, stroking Fluffett’s stiff body, hoping somehow that I could transfer some of the life from my body to hers. Chris rushed over to comfort me, realizing I wasn’t convinced. I was certain she had died. Thoughts of my childhood puppy Flop’s death flooded my mind. I was completely overwhelmed—until I began to feel a strange sensation in Fluffett. Ever so slowly, life returned to her small, furry body.

  I was never so happy to learn that Chris was indeed well-informed. We would later witness this bunny survival technique one more time in Fluffett’s life.

  “You scared us to death, Fluffett.”

  Once Julie and I calmed down, I walked toward the house with Fluffett. Outdoor playtime was over, as far as
I was concerned. Suddenly, Fluffett’s confidence seemed to return and she scratched my chest playfully, struggling to get free for another round of “Let’s fool the enemy.” Only the squirrel was now gone; my screams had sent him deep into the woods.

  Chris grabbed her out of my arms and threw her back into play mode. She binkied along the grass near the sidewalk, then spotted in her peripheral vision a golf ball–sized hole in the dirt near the back porch. She scurried over and started digging with her front paws—left, right, left, right. Dirt flew up into the air, creating a small brown cloud. Within minutes, she had practically disappeared down the hole, giving me another adrenaline rush. Her tail was the only thing left sticking out above the ground.

  “That’s it,” I screeched, yanking her tail lightly. “I think we’ve had enough of the great outdoors.”

  Fluffett attempted the great escape, yanking herself away from my grasp and taking a nosedive. My hands clutched her hips while she hung onto a cluster of grass with her front paws and teeth. She did the perfect handstand, putting up a good fight, but lost. I slung her on my chest and brushed off the loose dirt.

  “You’re an indoor bunny, Fluffett, and that’s the law of the land,” I announced as she darted up my shoulder and stared at the backyard pathetically, like a child being dragged into a time-out.

  “Don’t worry, Fluffett,” said Chris. “I’ll take you out again when she’s not around.”