by Nancy Laracy
Bunny Boy lifted his head ever so slowly and twitched his nose against mine like Samantha from Bewitched. He started gently licking my cheek as tears began to trickle down. I fell back to sleep, with his soft body against my chest, my face wet with tears.
When I got up around seven o’clock, Bunny Boy was sitting in his litter pan, seemingly content, like the average male taking a dump.
“Good morning, Bunny Boy. How are you feeling, buddy?”
Bunny Boy flew enthusiastically out of his pan and up onto the sofa, landing on my chest on all fours, as if trying to convince me that everything was alright, much like he had when I received the dreadful news about Audrey. He was active and alert, his usual cheerful self. He never skipped a beat.
The morning was less chaotic than usual. Everyone did their part keeping the mood in the house upbeat. Ward made the kids breakfast and prepared their lunches. Chris heated the rolled towel in the microwave and Julie checked it, making sure it wasn’t too hot, so I could do another hot compress on Bunny Boy. I called the animal hospital and left a detailed message for Dr. Welch, who was in her Monday morning surgeries. Then I called my siblings. I did a few household chores, with Bunny Boy at my heels, and answered emails with him on my lap. Then I said the rosary.
Dr. Welch returned my call around noontime.
“I’d like you to consider bringing Bunny Boy into the Animal Medical Center in New York City.”
New York? Why couldn’t she perform the surgery? Dr. Welch must think this recurrence very serious.
“They’re using a new cutting-edge treatment for these types of abscesses,” she said with an optimism I desperately needed to hear. Dr. Welch had watched the procedure being performed at the University of Pennsylvania, but she did not know how to perform it herself. She continued, “I think Bunny Boy is the perfect candidate for this surgery. The veterinarian will implant granular antibiotic beads into his jawbone once they remove the abscess, and the antibiotic will be absorbed slowly and directly into the area over a period of three months. Combined with adjunct antibiotic therapy, this procedure may dramatically change the course of these stubborn abscesses.”
Her last words were all I needed to hear. I hung up the phone, feeling a great sense of hope.
I called the exotic department at the Animal Medical Center (AMC) and took the first available appointment for seven a.m. the next day. No doubt Bunny Boy was one of a kind, but exotic was never an adjective we had used to describe him. A new nickname would surely be in his future.
The next morning, Bunny Boy and I slipped out of the house quietly at five fifteen. He sat in the front seat of the car, looking out of the windows into the darkness. His abscess was painfully visible. Donna, another one of my devoted friends, was waiting to be picked up at our local Dunkin’ Donuts with two cups of coffee. She had kindly agreed to accompany me. Within minutes, Bunny Boy relaxed in her lap with his chin leaning on the console.
We crossed the George Washington Bridge and headed downtown on Harlem River Drive with time to spare. The AMC was located on First Avenue and 62nd street, twenty-eight blocks north of the New York University office of my second rheumatologist, Dr. Brown, who had become part of my own treatment team over the last year or so. I had gone to NYU for a second opinion after the option of methotrexate, a form of chemotherapy, or a biologic like Enbrel seemed close to becoming a reality, back when I had experienced my episode of near-paralysis.
Bunny Boy and I made a memorable entrance. I slipped in a puddle of pet urine that had yet to be cleaned up and crashed into the reception desk. Bunny Boy dug his paws deep into my chest trying to hang on.
“Bunny Boy Laracy!” I announced.
We took our seats among a group of diverse pet owners and their pets. They don’t call New York a melting pot for no reason. There were several large dogs with missing limbs, a cat with very little fur left on her skinny body that exposed the vertebrae on her back, two colorful birds, and a few lapdogs. Nothing exotic, at least until we showed up. Doctors and technicians milled around holding charts, giving post-operative instructions, or simply offering a caring word. It was like being at Columbia Presbyterian or Sloane-Kettering Hospital, but for animals.
To my right sat a woman who could have been a young version of the Queen of England, hat and all.
“She has to be British,” I mumbled to myself. A miniature Chihuahua was bulging out of her Louis Vuitton purse.
“Munchkin Wells, please?” inquired one of the physicians, looking around for her pet patient. “Munchkin Wells?”
I nearly burst into laughter. I knew who they were looking for.
“That woman’s face could be on the label for an Earl Grey teabag,” I said, nudging Donna.
The woman walked toward the doctor with perfect posture and poise, balancing her hat, purse, and Taco Bell–style dog.
“Here we are, ma’am.” Her accent was as elegant and beautiful as she was. “Be still, Munchkin,” she whispered, shoving the dog down into her pocketbook, which struck me as out of character for a woman with such class. “Let’s not be naughty.”
After Munchkin left, being the social creature that I am, I turned to make conversation with the male couple on our left and their enchanting little dog, a Pomeranian who was the same color as Bunny Boy.
“It’s an ungodly hour to be at the vet,” I said, reaching to pet the darling dog. “What’s his name?”
“He’s a she, and her name is Elizabeth. Mine is Bruce,” the man replied. “This is Sal, my life partner. Elizabeth loves having two dads.” I was not surprised to find a puppy with two dads here in New York.
“My name is Nancy, and this is Donna.” We all shook hands.
“How about your little love? What’s the bunny’s name?”
“His name is Bunny Boy,” I answered.
“Bunny Boy’s cuddling like a baby,” Sal said, with a glimmer in his eyes.
Instinctively, I pulled Bunny Boy to my chest and covered him with both arms as a Doberman Pinscher and his owner came out of the elevator into the lobby. “His bark is worse than his bite,” the gentleman said, yanking the dog’s chain but struggling to keep him from ending up on my lap. Elizabeth yapped loudly in the Doberman’s face, and he retreated with his tail between his legs. A strong-willed, fearless little female dog. I loved her already.
“Is Elizabeth very sick?” I asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Oh gosh, no, sweetie. Elizabeth’s just here for her well checkup. We bring her twice a year.”
A well checkup? I had just assumed that most of the pets were here for serious health issues.
“Please don’t tell me your little love is sick?” the couple asked. I pointed to Bunny Boy’s jaw. The abscess looked like it had gotten larger.
“Bunny Boy will need aggressive surgery to save his life,” I said sadly. “He has an incurable abscess.”
“My god, Sal, we need to pray,” Bruce shrieked. “We all need to pray.” He started waving his hands to get people’s attention. “Hello, excuse me, excuse me. May I have everyone’s attention, please?” Everyone in the room looked up. “We all need to pray at once for—what did you say his name was?”
“Bunny Boy,” I said sheepishly.
“Bunny Boy. We all need to pray for Bunny Boy.”
Everyone dropped his or her heads in prayer. It was incredibly touching.
Sal was a hairdresser who designed wigs for children with cancer. Bruce ran a deli. They were a very loving couple, and Elizabeth was obviously spoiled. She wore a sweater with the signature Moschino red heart on the front, and her carrying case had the Chanel logo stamped on the side. Her fur was long and wispy, and she darted back and forth between her dads’ laps, spinning and twirling like she had just drunk a bowl of Red Bull instead of water.
“So, where’s your girls’ apartment?” asked Bruce.
“Our apartment?” I said. Then it dawned on me.
“Nance,” Donna whispered, figuring it out at the same t
ime. “They think we’re a couple.” She quickly offered to the group, “My husband has his office here in the city on 44th and Fifth Avenue.”
“I live in New Jersey with my husband, about forty minutes from here,” I added.
“My, you’ve come a long way!” said Bruce, without skipping a beat. “Bunny Boy, you have suuuch a good mommy, don’t you?”
“Elizabeth has her own lavender bathroom. Lavender’s her favorite color,” Sal said, with a seriousness that made me realize he was not kidding. “It’s upstairs, off from the spare bedroom.”
“How wonderful,” I said, thinking about poor Julie who had to share her bathroom with Chris and the dirty clothes and moldy towels he left on the floor. “Lucky Elizabeth.”
Sal reached sweetly for his partner’s hand. “Does Bunny Boy have his own little bathroom?”
I glanced at Elizabeth—her two dads, her sweater, her carrying case. My competitive spirit emerged. I had to do it.
“The beige bathroom off from the kitchen is his,” I lied.
In reality, Bunny Boy hated the beige bathroom. During his first morning in the house, he had slipped on the marble floor and avoided that bathroom ever since.
“He also has a sweater with an American flag on the front,” I fibbed in a playful manner. I should have bought that sweater after all. Donna rolled her eyes in disbelief. I thought to myself, My god, what am I saying? I had succumbed to peer pressure and told two egregious lies.
“Bunny Boy Laracy, please?”
In the nick of time, I was rescued from my deceitful behavior by a technician.
I followed the woman down the corridor into an examination room. My decision not to use a carrier hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Backup in room three! We have a bunny,” I heard someone say from the hallway. I felt like I was in the middle of a drug raid.
“I guess we made a memorable entrance, buddy.”
The veterinarian walked in a few minutes later, addressing Bunny Boy, not me.
“Hello, Bunny Boy. I’m Dr. Hess.”
“Where’s Franklin Lakes?” she asked me, reaching to shake my hand. Back before The Real Housewives of New Jersey made its debut in the spring of 2009 and tarnished the reputation of the town, the suburban oasis was tucked quietly in Bergen County and hidden on the map.
“In Bergen County, New Jersey, about forty minutes west of the city,” I replied, puzzled. I thought it was an odd way to start a conversation with a pet owner.
“I see the abscess. We’ll get to that later.” Her serious tone rattled me. “There are just a few questions I’d like to ask before we start the exam, Mrs. Laracy.” She flipped through the manila folder labeled “Bunny Boy,” which contained his records that Dr. Welch had faxed over. The barrage of “just a few” questions began, some of which surprised me.
“What was the ancestry of Bunny Boy’s mother?”
“I assume she was a red satin,” I replied, instead of saying, “How would I know? She abandoned him.” I was hoping to shine some levity on the situation to get both of us to relax.
“His father?”
“I believe he must have been a red satin as well. Bunny Boy is a purebred.”
“Was Bunny Boy born in this country or abroad?”
“He’s a domestic bunny.”
“At what age was Bunny Boy weaned?”
“We bought him during a blizzard from a pet store. He was seven weeks old and weaned by then.”
“What percentage of Bunny Boy’s diet is hay?”
“A lot, right pal?”
“Fresh greens?”
She hadn’t seen our vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. There was a science experiment growing inside.
“Does he ingest his cecotropes?”
“He better,” I joked.
“Does Bunny Boy drink tap water or bottled water?”
“We have well water.”
“Good enough. Does Bunny Boy live outside in a hutch or inside your house?”
“He has free run of our Georgian colonial.”
That got her attention.
“I’m happy to hear that,” she said with just a hint of a smile. “Our indoor bunnies do better in all respects. They are less stressed.”
She continued. “How often does Bunny Boy have his nails taken care of?”
I thought I would try one more time to get Dr. Hess to lighten up. “More often than me.” It worked like a charm.
“Probably more often than me, too,” she said. “When was his last well checkup?”
“He’s never had one,” I said, ashamed.
“How often is Bunny Boy brushed?”
“Often. And he enjoys having his fur blow-dried.” She looked at me, not sure what to make of my comment.
“I blow-dry his fur after I bathe him.”
“Bathe him?” Her tone and facial expression turned serious again. “Bunnies groom themselves. They don’t like water. Or loud noises!”
“We’ve encountered a few different situations that required a bath. Once, he had severe diarrhea from an antibiotic.”
“Rabbits are frail, fretful animals, Mrs. Laracy. Bathing is stressful for a bunny. Their hearts are weak.”
“Yes, I am painfully aware of that.”
“Has Bunny Boy ever had fleas?”
“Of course he’s never had fleas,” I snapped, without realizing it.
“There are only a few more questions, Mrs. Laracy. I want to be as thorough as possible,” said Dr. Hess, sensing I was insulted by the flea question.
Thorough was an understatement. I had been sick for over eight years and had seen a minimum of a dozen specialists in many different fields of medicine, but I had never been asked such pointed questions regarding my diet, hygiene, or, for that matter, my ancestry.
By the time we were done with the questions, the backup SWAT team had arrived. I was also starting to feel more comfortable with Dr. Hess’s formal manner. She was clearly very knowledgeable about bunnies, and Bunny Boy and I were both warming up to her.
I handed Bunny Boy over and asked the two assistants to restrain him gently. “He’s very docile and cooperative. Bunny Boy will never charge or bite, and there’s no need to worry that he will injure you with his hind legs, I promise. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
Everyone smiled.
The examination fell into the category of something the president of the United States might receive during his own medical checkup. Bunny Boy’s individual nails and teeth were checked closely. His genitalia were groped. His ears were examined—externally for mites or fleas and internally for fluid, an infection, or a ruptured eardrum. Dr. Hess listened to Bunny Boy’s heart and lungs twice, and then his stomach.
“He seems to eat well,” she said, pushing gently on his belly.
Finally, she inspected the abscess like it was a rare gem and got right to the point.
“I’ll need to get a cat scan and take some x-rays of his jaw. We’ll use a mild sedative. Bunnies tolerate it well, but there is always a slight risk.”
“I would prefer that Bunny Boy not have any sedative,” I said. “I can hold him very still for the scans.”
“It’s not our policy to allow an owner in with their pet. I’m sorry.”
“Is it a must that Bunny Boy have the scans? Can they operate without them?”
“They serve as a diagnostic map for the surgeon,” she replied. “It’s very important. We’ll take good care of Bunny Boy, I promise.”
Reluctantly, I agreed to the cat scan and X-rays, and we were dismissed. About forty minutes later, Dr. Hess came out to the lobby with Bunny Boy wrapped in a blue fleece blanket. He looked like a sleeping angel. Donna and I were both drinking our second cup of coffee of the day. Elizabeth had already left with a clean bill of health.
“He may be groggy for the rest of the day,” she said with more warmth, transferring him to my waiting arms. “The abscess is deeply imbedded in Bunny Boy’s jawbone at the root of his bottom molar, Mrs. L
aracy. It appears the infection may also be in the bone.”
I knew it was serious. Back in one of the exam rooms, she showed me the abscess on the X-ray and asked about his first surgery in detail. She wanted to know how quickly he recovered from the anesthesia and whether or not I had trouble with him chewing his stitches. She wondered how well he tolerated the antibiotics and how long it took for him to eat on his own and resume his normal activity. By this time, I was feeling more comfortable with her and knew Bunny Boy would be in good hands.
“The antibiotic beads are our newest line of defense against these types of abscesses. We are extremely hopeful. Right, Bunny Boy?” said Dr. Hess, looking fondly down at my bundle.
My biggest concern was that the surgery required more anesthesia. I knew Bunny Boy would be fine post-operatively. He seemed to be able to handle pain well and had cooperated with the post-surgery protocol. But there was always a risk with anesthesia.
“We can schedule the surgery for next week, Mrs. Laracy, if that works for you?”
“Yes, that would work fine.”
With those words, I had also agreed to allow Bunny Boy to be a pioneer of the antibiotic beads. This would not be any regular surgery.
“Please call me any time, day or night, if you have any questions or problems with Bunny Boy. Here’s my cell phone number.” And she meant it. Not one of my own doctors had ever given me their cell phone number. I looked at her with admiration. She clearly cared deeply for her pet patients.
At the checkout counter, Donna and I read the bill. It was over a thousand dollars, and the surgery was yet to come.
During dinner that night, we discussed Bunny Boy’s upcoming procedure. I explained how the antibiotic beads worked and how they would decrease the likelihood of the abscess returning. I also told Julie and Chris that Bunny Boy would be part of important research, which made them happy and proud. Ward reminded me how well Bunny Boy had recovered from his first operation.
“I had to move to the other bedroom to get some sleep, remember?”
Within hours of returning home from the hospital, Bunny Boy was almost too active for his own good. It seemed he had no trouble coming out of the anesthesia just as he had after his first surgery. I cringed, thinking back to that time and picturing him squeezing under the coffee table with his black-and-blue face and swollen head.