by Nancy Laracy
I, too, used to love the snow. When I grew up, the five Buchalski kids spent a lot of time in the woods sledding with very little, if any, parental supervision. On the snow-covered Rainbow Lake in Haskell each year, Carol and I would ice skate with our friends while the boys played hockey. Then, my brother Jack and I would skate together, pretending to be the famous professional ice-skating pair, the Protopopovs. Once I got married, Ward and I took up downhill skiing, which made me love the snow all the more. I felt like I was in heaven when we skied down the bucolic, tree-lined, snow-packed trails in New England or traversed the famous knee-deep powder in the “Back Bowls” at Vail in Colorado.
After I got sick, if my health allowed and I was willing to brave the pain afterward, I would ice skate with Julie and Chris on Lily Pond near our house, twirling and pirouetting across the ice to show off. While I still admire the beauty and elegance of a snowstorm, more moisture and cold means more pain and stiffness. But no matter how cold or inclement the weather was, I went to every one of Chris’s winter basketball games. And I was grateful to have the comfort of Bunny Boy’s soft, warm body on my lap, which helped lessen my pain as I sat on the hard bleachers cheering on my son. On the nights that Dan and Ward were running late, Bunny Boy would sit in his basket on the stands while I supervised drills for the boys until the real coaches showed up.
The Mohawks were stacking up wins left and right by the end of February, keeping things interesting. On the night of one of Chris’s important games, I prepped an Italian dinner for the family. The kitchen table was covered in a classic red-and-white tablecloth, and matching napkins were secured in the middle by red napkin rings I had made by wrapping thick, silk ribbon around plastic shower curtain rings. My pot of Sunday sauce and meatballs was simmering on the stove, creating a delicious aroma in the air.
“Mom, are you cooking for the whole neighborhood?” Chris asked, throwing and catching a basketball on its way up and lunging forward, as if he were about to pass the ball to one of his teammates down the line.
I looked down. My giant pot of meatballs was enough to feed a small village.
“Dinner will be ready at five thirty,” I announced. It was four o’clock. “Chris has a seven o’clock game.”
I organized my ridiculous amount of meatballs and sauce into eight plastic containers, leaving enough for us simmering on the stove. But when I opened the freezer, I realized there wasn’t enough room for all the containers, so I called my neighbor, Nancy, to see if she had any space in her freezer, promising her one container in return for storage rights.
Quickly, I threw on my white ski jacket and stacked three containers of meatballs in my arms like a tower. I opened the door and looked out into the darkness of the evening as the bitter cold air hit my face. Hmm, I thought. Do I walk around the shoveled sidewalk to the side street and cross the road in front of our house—the long way—or do I trudge through the deep snow on the front lawn, cutting my time and distance in half?
I took the shortcut, trying to use the carved-out footsteps from the UPS man as my path, hearing the frozen snow crunching beneath my feet. Then, as I tried to balance my tower of meatballs, I missed the center of his steps and slipped where the curb met the street. I plummeted onto the asphalt, landing face down on top of the containers. My knees slammed into the ground first, then my shoulder, and finally my head. It was a miracle I didn’t break my teeth. The weight of my body crushed the containers open—I found myself lying in meatballs and sauce.
I wanted to scream. I pried myself halfway up, balancing on my knees with the palms of my hands on the asphalt. I tried to wipe the sauce from my face so I could see, but my sauce-covered hands made things worse. Sauce was dripping from everywhere and crystallizing in the nine-degree weather. My pants had ripped and I could feel my knee bleeding. There was barely a sliver of a moon and very few streetlights, and I could hardly see. I tried to gain my composure, but I was angry and cold. My head was throbbing, and quickly, things other than my head began to hurt.
I looked toward the house. Bunny Boy was sitting upright in our dimly lit foyer, waiting for me to come back. His cute little face peeking through the glass was the only thing that kept me from freaking out.
Shaking excess sauce off my clothes and kicking the containers aside with disgust, I limped across the lawn and rang the bell to be let back in as our front door automatically locked behind you. Chris swung the door open. “Julie, hurry, Mom’s bleeding!”
“It’s not blood! It’s tomato sauce!” I said, though it was actually both.
I stumbled into the foyer, almost tripping over Bunny Boy. Now I could see that my fake UGG boots were a psychedelic mess and my white ski jacket was covered in sauce and gravel. Bunny Boy was already lapping up the sauce as it dripped onto the floor. Chris covered his mouth, trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. By the time Julie came down, Bunny Boy was sloshing back and forth in a red puddle, which had formed near my ankles on the hardwood floors. He rolled over onto his back and bounced up onto all fours, completely covered. Tomato sauce dripped from his tall ears, whiskers, and nose. He started sneezing, splattering the sauce everywhere. The foyer looked like a war zone.
Bunny Boy tried to wipe his nose and head with his front paws in that adorable way that bunnies do, and it was just the right amount of cuteness I needed. I broke out laughing at the absurdity of it all. His fluffy cottontail was bright red and dragging on the floor from the weight of sauce. His ginger-colored fur was scarlet.
“Go eat your dinner and get into your basketball clothes, Chris. Julie, can you please clean up Bunny Boy?”
She looked at me as if to say, “How?”
I limped up the stairs, took some Advil from the medicine cabinet, and tried to assess my injuries. There was nothing catastrophic; I had suffered worse. I showered and came downstairs, clothed and bandaged. Chris was waiting for me in his basketball uniform, holding two containers of meatballs he had rescued and a large spoon.
The phone rang a minute later. It was Nancy, wondering where her dinner was. “Look out your window,” I said. “It’s in the street.”
While the team mascot stayed home and received a full spa treatment, Chris and I made it to his game by the end of the first quarter. The Mohawks ended up winning first place in the intermediate basketball league. Jonathan and Chris both won MVP, and Bunny Boy won Most Valuable Pet.
“We should give up coaching now,” said Ward, handing Dan the trophy. “Anything else is going to be a letdown.”
Chapter 14
We were quickly becoming known in town as the Bunny Family. And I was the leader of the pack. Once, I snuck Bunny Boy into Home Depot on a shopping trip, despite a “No pets allowed” sign. We were “caught” by a security guard, who, when he realized Bunny Boy was not a dog, said, “How ya doin’, little fella?” and proceeded to help me find my supplies. Once noticed by the rest of the store, Bunny Boy basked in the attention of a dozen (female) customers, clearly enjoying the limelight, and edged onto my shoulder, practically waving goodbye to his fans. Another time, I snuck him into a McDonald’s where I was meeting my mother for lunch, where he relished, again, the attention of a couple of octogenarian strangers.
Bunny Boy had quickly become a point of interest and a near celebrity in our community. One day, my neighbor Karen came over to enlist my advice. “Oh come on!” she exclaimed, when I greeted her at the door. “Every time I see you, Bunny Boy is in your arms.” It was true. I had been known to answer the door with his head on my shoulder like I was burping a baby. His soft body was food for my soul.
Karen had just bought a bunny for Easter and was hoping to pick my brain on how we had trained an indoor bunny. My first playful thought was, copycat! I thought back to Jaws, her vicious outdoor bunny, who, I assumed, had since crossed the rainbow bridge into pet heaven. I sat down to chat with her, enjoying her witty conversation and laughing so hard I could barely keep up with her punchlines. Karen was one of the funniest people I had ever met, and
her new bunny would give her all new material. She claimed her new bunny had already reduced her wicker furniture on her indoor porch to matchsticks with her overzealous chewing, and I couldn’t resist showing off Bunny Boy, who happily demonstrated his obedience and intelligence—not to mention his cuteness—as he lay in my arms and then binkied around the house.
“Oh come on!” Karen said, staring at Bunny Boy in awe. “I want a rabbit like Bunny Boy.”
Certainly, Bunny Boy was different.
Julie and Chris, too, enjoyed enlisting Bunny Boy for their own projects. Using the PVC pipes I had bought from Home Depot, Chris meticulously constructed an elaborate bunny maze in the family room. Bunny Boy sniffed the pipes more than once, checking out his new environment, and then he stuck his head in cautiously. When he dodged inside the pipe, he slipped on the plastic surface and scratched the plastic wildly, trying to get his footing while the pipe bobbed from side to side. For a split second, Bunny Boy was sent rolling upside down with his four paws spread-eagled against the roof of the pipe. It was hysterical watching him figure it out! Bunny Boy quickly realized that if he stayed still the pipe would stop bobbing, so he steadied himself and looked in both directions, seemingly calculating which was the shortest way out. Then he pranced out with major bunny attitude like a show rabbit instead of a frightened bunny who had just been rattled and turned upside down. He was a real clown.
Meanwhile, Julie’s middle school science fair was coming up—a first for the Laracy family. Our competitive personalities took hold and ideas for Julie’s project flowed freely one night at dinner, while Julie remained strangely quiet, pretending to be considering all of our suggestions. Finally, she blurted out, “Bunny Boy is going to be my project.”
She had been planning her project secretly for weeks, getting the required permission from her teachers to use a live animal for her exhibit. Our Bunny Boy would be on display in the auditorium at Franklin Avenue Middle School for all to see and meet! Julie was partnering with a classmate, Chloe, who had two outdoor rabbits, Slate and Spitfire. They, however, would not be joining Bunny Boy at the fair due to their fear of strangers, a result of their living outside in a hutch.
The excitement over Julie’s project began to build. I often found Julie and Bunny Boy together in her bedroom, the papers for her project scattered on her bed, as she sang a reggae tune to Bunny Boy, “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” It was one of her two favorite ways of communicating with him. The other was when she would hold him up under his armpits, looking at him face to face while delivering her usual line, “You’re cute. You’re fat. You’re really dumb, but I love you,” before giving him a big smooch on his fat cheeks.
For weeks leading up to the big event, Julie and Chloe spent hours together either in the library doing research or at home combing the Internet for information on lagomorphs—and the red satin species in particular. They compiled and compared notes on the different living arrangements and social lives of their bunnies and designed a poster detailing how and why those living arrangements may or may not have affected their rabbit’s health and personality. Slate and Spitfire cohabitated in a wooden hutch all year round, outside in the elements and among predators, and they had limited human contact. Because of that, their natural instincts to be fearful and skittish remained intact. They were known to charge when approached by anyone other than their owners. Thankfully, Slate and Spitfire had each other to snuggle and socialize with. But now that I’d learned firsthand how wonderful and social a rabbit could be living indoors among a human family, I felt terrible when I saw bunnies kept outside in hutches.
While the girls were busy with their project, I did a little—or rather, more than a little—research of my own. The staff at my local Barnes & Noble came to know me by name and learned to prepare my coffee the way I liked it. They welcomed Bunny Boy, too, who usually sprawled out on my lap or on one of their sofas while I read. They never asked if he was a therapy animal. Bunny Boy and I also frequented our town library, flipping through books and striking up conversations with the staff. I threw our pet store bunny guide into the trash and bought a bunny encyclopedia. Then, I studied how to groom, train, and socialize rabbits the right way—not by trial and error, as we had done with Bunny Boy.
I spent a great deal of time focusing on medical ailments that plagued the lagomorph species and found out more than I cared to know. Upper respiratory infections referred to as “snuffles,” gastrointestinal problems, teeth issues, and abscesses caused by the bacteria Pasteurella were common among rabbits. Bunny Boy, a chip off the old block, was racking up one health issue at a time.
Julie and I memorized. We organized. I picked Loretta’s brain for practical bunny knowledge and discussed real-life bunny emergencies with Dr. Welch. Through our research, we gained a more in-depth understanding of Bunny Boy’s body language and his habits—why he thumped, and why he plumped. We learned what color his urine would turn if he ate certain greens—critical information! We skipped over their warnings about loud noises frightening rabbits, which clearly didn’t apply to Bunny Boy. Amazingly, he loved the sound of the vacuum, the staccato beeps and noises of video games, and the theme of his favorite television shows (i.e., our favorite shows). He was also intrigued, rather than terrified, by a good thunderstorm.
We also learned why bunnies multiply so fast. Does, famous for their fecundity, spontaneously ovulate during coitus. They become sexually mature after three months and typically give birth to five or six kits with each litter. We also discovered that bunnies over the ripe age of five are considered geriatric and that the smaller breeds of bunnies can live longer than the larger species, much like dogs. Of course, we already knew that the red satin species had a life expectancy of seven to eight years, and that their trademarks were their beautiful satin fur and high level of intelligence.
The morning of the fair, I brought Bunny Boy to Scuffy’s to have his nails clipped. It took great restraint on my part not to purchase a pet sweater with an American flag emblem for him to wear—to ensure first prize for the girls! When Julie came home from school, we brushed Bunny Boy’s fur and checked his hindquarters for any residual grapelike clusters, then opened his mouth to make sure there were none stuck on his front teeth. Ward raced through the door from work around six, practically inhaled his dinner, and then tested Julie on her facts, trying to trip her up.
The crowds came out in masses that night. I had also invited my siblings and their families—I could always count on their support. It was almost embarrassing. At any given point in time, there was at least one sibling, their spouse, a cousin, or a friend roaming the aisles and saying things to other guests like, “Did you see that gorgeous bunny? He’s so domestic and calm. Isn’t he terrific?” I had to tell them to stop.
The girls’ exhibit was standing room only. Despite all the noise and commotion, our lagomorph sat, relaxed, in Julie’s arms while she handed out fact sheets to spectators or strands of hay to him. Chloe handled the verbal presentations, and they both took turns answering questions. I tried discreetly to snap photos of Julie, Chloe, and Bunny Boy from virtually every angle, without success. Chris caught me.
“Take a few more, Mom. We don’t have enough.” Chris never failed to remind me that we already had almost as many photos of Bunny Boy as our firstborn, Julie. The number of pictures that we had of Chris came in at a distant third.
While the girls didn’t win one of the top prizes, they had received the most spectators by a large margin.
I should have bought the sweater.
As I drove home from the fair, it suddenly occurred to me. Had all of the constant commotion in the house caused Bunny Boy to feel stressed, possibly suppressing his immune system; or was he born that way? From the night he came into our life, Bunny Boy had always been in the thick of things. How many times had I heard the phrase “Stress compromises your immune system” directed to myself? Should I have done things differently for him?
Chapter 15
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br /> When it was springtime again, I found a nest of baby bunnies in our flowerbed. I would walk past the kits several times a day to check on them, compelled to guard them from predators. Seeing the baby bunnies in their nests reminded me that rabbits are the symbol of rebirth. Spring, itself, is the rebirth of many things. Nature’s wonders replace the barrenness of winter. Green leaves burst from buds to engulf the deciduous trees, and perennial flowers sense when it’s time to color the landscape. And the wonder of hearing the birds chirp or the owls hoot might cause someone to pause and think, Is there some higher power?
The tiny creatures with so little fur and their eyes closed also made me realize how much Bunny Boy had grown. He had lost his yummy baby look—his ginger fur now looked like it had been sprinkled lightly with brown sugar, and the white area around his nose was receding. He maintained his peak weight of eight and a half pounds with a healthy diet made up of mostly timothy hay and a small amount of pellets or fresh greens. Tiny pieces of apples and bananas were reserved for snacks, which he was crazy about. He’d thump if he didn’t get his fruit roughly the same time every morning, letting me know he was impatient.
Bunny Boy had reached new heights of lusciousness. I would come home and find him plumped like a hen under the wingback chair next to the fireplace. With the sun on his back, his fur glistened like crystals and his eyes shone like black onyx. Other times, he would be lying on his side, sleeping peacefully under a dining room chair. I would resist the urge to scoop him up and give him a big ole raspberry on his pudgy belly and instead give him a gentle kiss and let him rest. During dusk and early morning when he was most active, he would gambol across the house with sheer delight, eventually landing in my waiting arms!
Bunny Boy’s personality continued to emerge, like layers being pulled off an onion. He was extremely gentle, loving, and calm, but also mischievous and independent. He grew more attached to us every day. I found his affection intoxicating, his purring soothing. Bunny Boy would only purr when he was snuggling with Chris or me. But he would only lick me. The first time Bunny Boy licked my hand, Julie insisted it was because he liked my hand cream. Licking is indicative of a deep bond that very few bunnies form with their owners—and the ultimate sign of love from a male bunny is when he sprays you with urine. Then, you become his soul mate.