Bunny Boy and Me

by Nancy Laracy

  “Let’s keep doing the hot compresses every day,” said Julie.

  “I’ll help,” Chris chimed in. “Bunny Boy’s going to help other animals, right?”

  “Yes, he will,” said Ward.

  But I couldn’t cheer up. I left most of the food on my plate. When I went to check on Bunny Boy, he was pulling strands of hay out of his cardboard dispenser and tossing them around the lagomorph lounge like he had never had any anesthesia. He binkied toward me, looking to play, but I just stared into space. He tugged at my pants with his teeth and clawed my feet until I picked him up. There we stood, face to face.

  “Everything is going to be fine, Bunny Boy,” I whispered, kissing his twittering nose. “I know it will.”

  As his front paws cupped my cheeks, he licked my nose with a sweetness that, somehow, seemed different.

  “I love you so much, little man.” I said, looking into his eyes. “I need you, Bunny Boy.”

  I went to bed earlier than usual. The risk of anesthesia and more invasive surgery weighed heavily on my mind, as it would for the rest of the week.

  • • •

  The Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, fell just days before Bunny Boy’s surgery. I bundled him up in a light blanket and brought him to our church, The Most Blessed Sacrament, to be blessed by Father Mike.

  The parking lot behind the church was crowded with cars and pets when we pulled in. There were the usual chocolate and golden Labradors dragging their owners across the lot and at least a dozen brazen lapdogs; longhaired angora cats, tiger-colored kittens, and one Siamese cat; a few hamsters and guinea pigs; and one turtle. And one rabbit—Bunny Boy.

  The scene was one of mass pandemonium. Any normal rabbit would have died instantly of a heart attack before receiving the ultimate blessing. Instead, Bunny Boy was cradled in my arms like a baby, perfectly relaxed amid the commotion.

  When it was our turn to be blessed, Father Mike asked how old Bunny Boy was and made idle chatter about his fur and size. Like a proud parent, I mentioned that Bunny Boy would pioneer a new treatment at the Animal Medical Center. Father Mike listened intently, then signaled it was time for his blessing. He made the sign of the cross on Bunny Boy’s head while he said a short prayer and looked directly into his eyes. Bunny Boy tapped Father Mike’s hand with his front right paw as he spoke.

  “God will give you the strength to take care of Bunny Boy, Mrs. Laracy.”

  And I knew God would. Father Mike’s calm voice comforted me. It would help me get through a difficult week. I pulled out of the parking lot feeling less anxious and more confident that the surgery would go well.

  “You’re going to be fine, Bunny Boy. I know that now,” I said, reaching over to tickle his ears.

  Chapter 17

  The stress of Bunny Boy’s pending surgery combined with an upper respiratory infection caused another major flare-up in my mixed connective tissue disease. Practically overnight, I felt like I had been run over by a truck. My energy source was completely drained. By the morning of the surgery, it was difficult to walk more than twenty feet without feeling out of breath. Carrying Bunny Boy around had become a chore; he felt so heavy. But I simply had to push through the pain and fatigue for Bunny Boy’s sake.

  Always striving to be efficient, I had also scheduled an appointment with my rheumatologist Dr. Brown that same day, assuming Bunny Boy would be stable and out of the recovery room by the afternoon. My mother had agreed to accompany me so Ward wouldn’t have to miss an important meeting. Mom was remarkable. Nothing stopped her. Not widowhood, not a crippling back or a failed hip replacement. She was always there for her children—and their pets. She also loved New York. When she left her small hometown of Franklin, New Hampshire, in the late 1940s to affiliate as a nurse in Jersey City, Manhattan was her backyard. She was perfectly at home roaming the great metropolis.

  We approached the AMC parking lot after sitting in two hours of traffic. My cell phone buzzed as I edged my way forward in the line of cars waiting for the parking attendant. It was Dr. Hess. Bunny Boy’s surgery had been canceled. The surgeon who was to operate on Bunny Boy had had a small family emergency.

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Laracy. Dr. Irwin assures me that it was just a small emergency and that he can perform the operation tomorrow morning at the same time. He’s the most qualified surgeon we have on staff, and Bunny Boy deserves that.”

  I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel. It had taken a Herculean effort for me to make the trip. What could I say?

  “Can we count on Bunny Boy in the morning?” she asked nicely.

  “Yes, we’ll be there,” I said in my best amicable voice.

  I moved my rheumatologist’s appointment from two o’clock to eleven. While my mother went to a Starbucks around the corner to pick up some coffee and muffins, Bunny Boy and I waited on the ground floor entrance of the hospital. I was too weak to go for the walk. We hailed a cab around ten thirty and directed the driver to NYU.

  “For a moment, I thought that you were holding a cat,” said the cab driver in a thick Lebanese accent. “But that’s a bunny, and it’s big.”

  “And heavy.” I smiled.

  “Why all of the hospitals?” he asked.

  “This ride is too short for the story.”

  With Bunny Boy in my arms, I announced myself at the receptionist at Dr. Brown’s office. When she replied curtly, Bunny Boy took it upon himself to put an end to her attitude. He hopped onto the counter in his flirtatious style and knocked a pen onto her lap, which only annoyed her more. “I hope your rabbit behaves,” she remarked sharply. “You can take a seat and we’ll be with you shortly.”

  My mother and I grabbed two chairs in the crowded, drab lobby. Bunny Boy, his charming and endearing self, relaxed in the crook of my arm. I tickled his belly, and he thrust his thumper paws forward then pulled them backward like he was bench pressing, drawing plenty of attention. My arms were throbbing when I finally asked him if he wanted to get down. He switched from the “cradled infant” position to the “hanging onto my chest for dear life” position, showing no interest in leaving my embrace, provoking a few adoring looks and sweet comments. Eventually, I had no choice.

  “Behave, Bunny Boy,” I warned, placing him down on the carpet. I should have known better.

  Bunny Boy tore around the lobby like one of those crazy mechanical mouses. Patients started lifting their feet and purses. The receptionist let out a shriek and gave me a disapproving look as Bunny Boy binkied toward the exit door and, with one sharp twist of his body, came popcorning back to the table. He stood up on his hind legs and started knocking the magazines onto the floor, one at a time, with his front paws and head. Despite the mess, Mom and I watched as the stress practically lifted from the other patients’ faces, to be replaced by smiles as they watched his bunny antics. It was amazing.

  Before I could grab my unruly third child, he gamboled several feet in the air and slid across the glass coffee table, landing on a teenager’s lap. Bunny Boy started sniffing his crotch like an obnoxious little dog. I ran over, embarrassed, and slung him on my chest, apologizing to the young man. Mom started picking up the magazines, insisting I sit down and rest. “Get him under control,” she laughed, “or we’ll be thrown out.”

  Coyly, Bunny Boy burrowed his way down my chest backward and plopped down, snug in the crevice between my legs. With no shame, he sprawled out on his back with his paws up in the air. “He thinks he’s a dog,” I said, loud enough for the other patients to hear. “Or a baby.” By that point, everyone’s spirits had been lifted and jovial conversation was flowing.

  Dr. Brown walked toward us a few minutes later. He liked to greet his patients in the lobby. “Here’s the other member of the family with a screwed-up immune system,” I said, jiggling Bunny Boy’s belly. Dr. Brown knew all about Bunny Boy.

  After the exam, we spoke candidly about the progression of my disease. He recommended more aggressive treatment. Those words
sounded familiar and strangely coincidental.

  “We can try methotrexate, a chemotherapy drug, or Enbrel, which is one of the newer biologics that block inflammation.”

  I balked. My fear of starting new medications was real and stemmed back to the early days of my diagnosis. The first rheumatologist I saw prescribed Zoloft at a high dose for pain and not at the dose for depression, and I ended up in the emergency room with a heart rate of 220 and severe deregulation of the central nervous system. It was terrifying enough to influence how I would come to think about and use medication to treat my illnesses. Methotrexate, an immunosuppressant used as chemotherapy, had begun to show great promise in treating rheumatologic diseases by suppressing the immune system; however, it could also be toxic to the liver in the long term and had to be monitored properly. The newer biologics like Enbrel, Humira, and Remicade, a class of immunosuppressants that target a specific part of your information that causes inflammation, were also serious medicines and not without risk. They could cause tuberculosis, multiple sclerosis, and some forms of cancer such as lymphoma and leukemia. For a doctor to start a patient on those types of medications, the benefits had to be weighed carefully against the risks.

  “I would like to get some additional blood work before you start anything,” said Dr. Brown. “Can you stay around for a few hours?”

  It seemed that my time spent dodging more aggressive treatments had finally run out. Reluctantly, I said yes, worrying about my mother’s back and hip pain, which she tolerated and disguised so well. And of course, there was Bunny Boy. We had no access to a litter pan.

  The nurse came in five minutes later with a shot for my gluteus maximus. She would need to draw blood every half hour for the next two hours to determine if my cortisol levels had returned to normal after having been suppressed from six months of prednisone. If they did, we could start either of the meds.

  We relocated to the main lobby to wait. The old New York building looked like it had been built before the turn of the century and had not been renovated since. The walls were a dull gray and the ceiling was stained, with numerous tiles missing. A security guard inside of a small glass cubicle greeted visitors as they came in. When there was a lull, he walked over.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen somebody traveling with a bunny. Not even in New York.” He rubbed Bunny Boy’s head with his knuckles. His name was LeRoy, and his southern drawl and proper demeanor were welcoming and charming. LeRoy hung around and chatted with us until I went in for my next shot. He was intrigued by Bunny Boy and thought his ten grandchildren—five girls and five boys—would love him.

  By the time I returned to the lobby, it was time for lunch. According to LeRoy, there were no food establishments within walking distance except for the bodega across the street.

  “They have great Chinese food, if you like that kind of thing.”

  I looked outside. It was pouring rain.

  “I’ll be happy to lend you one of those fine umbrellas over yonder!” He brought us one of the umbrellas from the stand next to his cubicle. “I’d be mighty pleased if you would leave the bunny with me while you all go and get yourselves some lunch.”

  How could we refuse his offer? Plus, Bunny Boy would go to anyone, just like Julie had as a baby.

  When I saw the vast array of Cantonese items at the buffet, I knew it was worth the effort it took for me to walk over. We returned with two Styrofoam containers of delicacies to find Bunny Boy propped on LeRoy’s knees.

  “He’s quite an amicable fellow,” said Leroy, winking at us.

  I was biting into a crisp piece of stir-fried broccoli, Bunny Boy on my lap, when my mom motioned for me to look up. An incredibly handsome and sophisticated gentleman had just walked in. He wore a Burberry raincoat and held a Davek umbrella. He walked with a smooth, wide stride, and then stopped abruptly when he saw us out of the corner of his eye. It was difficult to see the expression on his face.

  “Maybe he’s flirting with you, honey!” my mom said. More than likely, he was just surprised to see us having lunch with a bunny!

  As he approached our bench with a distinct air of confidence, he raised his eyebrows in an awkward sort of way and looked me over again. Uncomfortably. Bunny Boy bolted upright on my lap, eying the intruder.

  “You must be kidding,” he snarled. “You’re eating in the foyer of my apartment building.” My temper flared, and I signaled to my mother in a way that said, “Let me handle this.”

  “We’re so sorry,” I began, in my kindest, most nauseating voice possible. “My mother and I were hungry. I’m having blood drawn every half hour by Dr. Brown, which doesn’t leave us enough time to venture out to a restaurant, so LeRoy recommended we get some food across the street. Besides the fact, I feel quite sick. We’re going to be here for two more hours.”

  He came closer, and his mean look startled me. But I continued my sweet talk, fully hoping to shame him for his insensitivity. “Perhaps we could go outside in the rain and sit on the curb and have our lunch if you would like?”

  “Please do,” he barked. My mother was halfway off the bench in protest of his ghastly manners, but she settled back down when I put my arm out to block her like a gate. Now it was my turn to bark. I covered Bunny Boy’s ears and spit out more four-letter expletives than Al Pacino had in Scarface. My mother looked at me in disbelief, as if she had no idea who I was. The vulgar language was uncharacteristic of me. I had clearly been suffering from blood loss. He returned some verbal fire. Suddenly, Bunny Boy lunged forward with his front paws and snarled angrily, nearly falling onto the ground, and the man fled for the elevator, not looking back. Mom stared at Bunny Boy in the same way she had looked at me just moments before. Neither one of us had any idea Bunny Boy could make such an aggressive sound. It was worse than the day he challenged the squirrel. And the fact that he had detected hostility and seemed to want to protect us was simply unbelievable.

  LeRoy walked over and shook my hand. “There are probably a half a dozen folks in this building who would love to do what you just did!”

  Manhattan had finally met Bunny Boy!

  • • •

  We made the second trek into New York City the following morning without incident. Bunny Boy clung to Dr. Hess’s shoulder, looking back at me, as she walked down the hallway toward the operating room. I could tell he was frightened. So was I. A Ziploc bag containing my two favorite prayer cards—one specifically for animals and another to St. Francis—were tucked safely in her jacket pocket. I needed the prayer cards to be near Bunny Boy while he was in surgery. Once they disappeared, I huddled in the warm embrace of my mother. I often wondered if I would have had a similar relationship with my father had he lived long enough to know me as a grown woman.

  By noon, Bunny Boy was in recovery. I had chewed most of my cuticles and stared at the colorful jungle mural on the far wall of the lobby, second-guessing my decision. Now that Bunny Boy had made it through the anesthesia, I felt as if a heavy load had been lifted off my shoulders.

  When Dr. Hess came for us, I went to stand up, and my joint pain was almost unbearable. Everything around me began to spin. The colors in the mural melded together like a kaleidoscope and the hallway to the recovery room seemed to be narrowing as we walked down to see Bunny Boy.

  “The surgery went well, Mrs. Laracy,” Dr. Hess reassured me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “Bunny Boy is resting comfortably. You can relax a little now.”

  “Thank you,” was all I managed to say.

  “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

  My mother quickly answered for me. “She’s fine now.”

  We walked into the unit, past many pets in small incubator-style containers. I looked at them uneasily. They all belonged to someone who loved them. A surgical tech walked over, holding Bunny Boy. He was swaddled in a yellow towel like an infant. His nose and whiskers were perfectly still, and his eyes were covered with a gel-like substance. I leaned down and kissed his soft cheek and dry nose
.

  “Mommy loves you very much, Bunny Boy. You’re so strong.”

  Instantly, Bunny Boy’s whiskers began to flutter every so slightly and his nose began to twitter. All of my angst and worry disappeared. My boy had made it through the surgery. And he had done his part to help veterinary research.

  “Your mutual affection for each other is captivating,” said Dr. Hess, with a genuineness that told me she meant it. Then she gave us some troubling news. She had found two small abscesses in Bunny Boy’s hocks. They were most likely caused by the same strain of bacteria that was in his jaw abscess.

  “I will show you how to irrigate and bandage these wounds. This is critical, so please watch closely.”

  She unwrapped the towel and then the two separate layers of bandages on Bunny Boy’s hind legs. Bunny Boy began to stir. I could see two small holes in the center of his hocks where the fur had been shaved.

  “This must be done every day, religiously, for six weeks to prevent the infection from entering the bone.” Dr. Hess drew a light blue fluid up into a small syringe and injected it into the wounds where the pus had been. The technician held onto Bunny Boy firmly as he squirmed. It was difficult for me to watch. It was apparent that his hocks were painful. Once the wounds were irrigated, she applied a generous amount of antibiotic cream and a soft pad covering, and together they bandaged his legs with gauze and a colorful rubber wrapping. His legs were immobilized at a right angle. I wondered how he would hop around—maybe he couldn’t.

  “Bunny Boy will also need daily penicillin shots and an oral antibiotic for six weeks. And please do not forget to do the hot compresses on his jaw. These tubes will drain easier if the fluid isn’t thick.”

  My eyes darted from his hocks to his jaw, which was swollen and beginning to turn black and blue. It was overwhelming. I wanted to say, “Wait, slow down. This is too much to process so quickly.”