Bunny Boy and Me

by Nancy Laracy

  I pulled over to the side of the road and called Ward, shivering.

  “It was a sign from Bunny Boy, Ward,” I exclaimed. “I must have said at least four times today that I needed to know that Bunny Boy was okay.” Ward uttered a few comforting words. I could hear the sadness in his voice. I looked far into the woods for the bunny. Somehow, amid my sadness, a sense of relief filled me. Bunny Boy had let me know that he was fine.

  That bunny sighting was the first of several amazing coincidences and miracles yet to come after Bunny Boy’s passing.

  • • •

  That night, I walked upstairs to my bedroom around eleven. My bed looked like a drop-off center for unwanted stuffed bunnies. Ward had piled up every stuffed bunny we had from all over the house on my side of the bed in an attempt to cheer me up. I fell into the pool of fake fur—and cried. Not for long, but intensely. I curled up in the fetal position, clutching my all-time favorite stuffed rabbit—a sandy-colored bunny with white ears that doubled as a puppet. Julie and Chris had surprised me with it one year for Mother’s Day.

  I lay awake, torturing myself for going to sleep the day before during Bunny Boy’s last night. My stomach was turning in knots. Excuses and should-haves kept me awake. Sleep never came. Around three in the morning, I went down to the lagomorph lounge and sat in the recliner. This time, I wrapped myself in Bunny Boy’s leopard blanket. I longed for my father’s voice, his warm smile.

  “Take good care of my boy, Dad,” I said.

  I returned to bed a second time, clutching Bunny Boy’s blanket. The next thing I knew, I felt a soft tap on my head. It was seven thirty in the morning. I had slept past my usual alarm, which Ward had turned off when he saw I was finally sleeping.

  Chris was standing at the edge of my bed, holding a checkered gift bag.

  “This was left on the front porch,” he whispered. I unwrapped the lavender floral tissue paper, and inside was a life-size stuffed rabbit that looked just like Bunny Boy. It was eerie. The bunny was sitting on its haunches with its ears straight up—happy ears. My friend Mary Beth had dropped the package off on her way to work. The faucets opened again. I was unable to stop—I didn’t want to.

  My new stuffed bunny was the beginning of an extremely touching tribute to Bunny Boy that I will never forget, from all who knew him. Those first few days, baskets of flowers and plants arrived at my door. Some of them were in ceramic bunny planters, others had bunnies of one type or another perched among the greenery. The UPS man came twice one day, bringing large and small stuffed bunnies in pastel colors and the more traditional shades of brown, white, or gray. Perhaps the most meaningful gesture was when the neighbor’s fifteen-year-old daughter dropped off her favorite childhood bunny to comfort me—on loan.

  My foyer became a shrine for Bunny Boy. The surgical staff at Estes Park Hospital in Colorado, where Tom worked as a nurse, sent beautiful cards with inspirational words, saying they felt as if they had all known Bunny Boy. The story of my brother’s heroic effort to revive Bunny Boy had circulated throughout his hospital, and the Suburban News feature article hung proudly in his office.

  I wasn’t alone for more than a few hours those first few days. Friends, neighbors, and family members came by with cups of coffee, my favorite chocolate iced donuts, and dinners for a grieving mommy. I might as well have been sitting Shiva, just without the bagels and fish platters. Donna, in her delicate way, had many spiritual words to share with me. Employees from the Franklin Lakes Animal Hospital also called. Dr. Welch was heartbroken when she returned from her vacation.

  “I lived and breathed for Bunny Boy,” she said, her voice cracking. “We gave him the long life he deserved. Bunny Boy fought when he shouldn’t have had the strength. Mrs. Laracy—you know that, right?”

  While Dr. Welch cared for every pet with the same love and tender care, Bunny Boy was her pride and joy. And she wasn’t shy about admitting to that. She and the Animal Medical Center had kept Bunny Boy alive about eight years more than anyone could have expected, while at the same time making sure he had the best quality of life.

  The staff at the Animal Medical Center was also deeply saddened by the news of Bunny Boy’s passing. Dr. Quesenberry thanked me personally for the role Bunny Boy played in rabbit medicine. During the near decade we had Bunny Boy, the hospital had made great strides when it came to medical care for bunnies. Rabbits had become the pet du jour in large cities; in particular, Manhattan. Suddenly, bunny patients were plentiful. More accurate statistics regarding the prognosis for medical procedures performed on bunnies were now available. Rabbits were on the radar!

  There was nothing more I could have asked for. I felt incredibly blessed.

  Now I would simply need time to adjust to the loss of my best friend.

  Chapter 31

  Reality set in. I found myself wandering around the house like a lost soul, talking to Bunny Boy as if he were still there. I ached inside and out. I felt numb and lethargic. Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of Bunny Boy. The baskets of medical supplies were still on the kitchen counter, alongside half empty bottles of antibiotics and pain medicine that were labelled: “Bunny Boy Laracy 668 Dakota/BUNNY Trail, Franklin Lakes.” (“Bunny Trail” was Dr. Welch’s idea.) The lagomorph lounge was still exactly the same way as it was the day Bunny Boy died. The wicker tunnel he sat on the night before was still by the couch, and his pillow and blanket were on the recliner.

  It had been four long days, and I knew it was time to distract myself. I tried to get onto the computer to continue writing my book, but it was too painful. So, Ward and I made a last-minute decision to go ahead with our on-again, off-again weekend to the Finger Lakes of New York with our friends Keith and Michele, which we had planned back in September.

  Keith and Michele arrived early Saturday morning, their usual cheerful selves. They handed me a small package wrapped in gold glitter paper. Inside was a beautiful hand-painted ceramic Christmas bunny ornament. We shared hugs, coffee, and bagels before hitting the road. The Finger Lakes were about five hours away.

  I tried to keep the conversation in the car light, at least initially, until Michele mentioned that I needed to grieve properly. That was a license to cry. In between my tears, one Bunny Boy story or special moment after another kept us occupied for much of the trip.

  I tried to sum it up. “Bunny Boy was no ordinary rabbit. He was the breath of fresh air that blew into my life when I needed it the most. He was a beloved member of our family for the near decade we were lucky enough to have him. Bunny Boy filled a void no one else could fill. Like a cat, he seemed to have nine lives, surviving one medical calamity after another. He was downright mischievous and utterly charming. His loyalty and complete trust in me were unwavering. Bunny Boy loved deeply without discriminating, and he touched the souls of all he met with his gentle spirit and endearing nature. He was made of iron. When his body was failing, he fought to hold onto life—savoring every minute. Bunny Boy loved a simple ride in the car, a silly game, or an afternoon on the porch. He wanted to be loved. And he returned that love unconditionally. Bunny Boy left his mark on the medical community worldwide, but most of all he helped save my life in more ways than one. He was, in the end, my role model for how to conduct oneself with dignity when life throws you one curveball after another.”

  We arrived at our lodging in Lake Skaneateles, the easternmost part of the Finger Lakes. The quaint inn, which had served as an old stagecoach stop in the 1800s, was located on the main street across from the lake. The exterior was colonial blue with black shutters. The lobby boasted a large stone fireplace, tapestry Queen Anne chairs, and a deep-green wood-framed velvet sofa. I pictured Bunny Boy nestled on one of the chairs and felt my eyes gloss over. Sconces lit the rustic foyer and a crooked pine staircase led up to the guest rooms.

  I was unable to sleep much that first night at the inn. I missed Bunny Boy terribly. I longed for him; I thought about life without him. I would miss our special time on the front porch; I
would miss having him as my traveling companion. I would miss being scampered on and gently licked during a good snuggle. There would be no more rubbing noses or silly antics or mischief. The house would be too calm and quiet without him underfoot.

  The following morning, we met our friends in the main dining room for a buffet breakfast. In an attempt to drown my sorrows, I carb-loaded, devouring two chocolate chip muffins, a croissant with butter, and a toasted bagel with jelly.

  The weather was winterlike, the water dull beneath the gray skies. We toured the remaining points of interest of Lake Skaneateles and made our way to Lake Seneca by late morning. The upstate towns were lacking tourists and the absence of sun cast a looming shadow over the entire region. We stopped at different wineries to sample their selections of red and white wines. A tide of emotion came over me at winery number six when a very old chocolate Labrador with three legs came limping out from behind the tasting bar. His entire snout was framed with gray hair. He had lost his back leg from cancer when he was only three years old. As I petted him, I could see Bunny Boy, unable to get up off the hardwood floors, and I simply had to tell my story to the proprietor while I tasted yet another three wines, which only made me more emotional.

  At the next winery, I was hit with a rush of wooziness. It was almost two o’clock and the only thing we had eaten since breakfast were a few crackers, some cheese, and nuts. We decided to lunch at the Harbor Inn in Watkins Glen. The waitress walked us to a table in the bar area overlooking the lake. I glanced over the menu quickly, picked my salad, and began to torture myself again—wondering why I hadn’t stayed up with Bunny Boy that very last night.

  “I need to take a walk by myself for a few minutes,” I told Ward and our friends.

  I strolled aimlessly down the brightly lit marble corridors of the hotel, talking to Bunny Boy. I still couldn’t believe he had left me. I gazed out of the windows toward the lake and the dreariness of the bare trees, the black water, and the ragged underbrush, which seemed to swallow me up. I must have looked lost, because I soon heard, “Are you looking for the ladies’ room?”

  I shook my head politely and continued walking to a “T” in the hallway, when I stopped abruptly. On the wall in front of me were four blown-up landscapes of Lake Seneca from the 1920s. The fifth photo, which was flanked by the other four, showed a small cement structure with a large sign that read “BUNNY’S PLACE.” I stood for a moment, reading the description beneath the large letters.

  Bunny’s Place was a snack bar located across the street from Lakeside Park on Route 414. With the witty motto of “If you are hungry, don’t go by,” how could anyone not want to support the business?

  It seemed like an uncanny coincidence. A sudden lightheartedness came over me. I felt Bunny Boy’s presence. I ran back to the bar to get my traveling therapy group to show off my discovery.

  “We were sent here for a reason,” I whispered to Michele as I took several pictures of the unique historic photograph.

  I was in a much better mood for the rest of the day. The four of us laughed and joked over the silliest things like a bunch of college kids. During dinner, a blues singer kept my mind from wandering to Bunny Boy for at least an hour—a new record—while I enjoyed a French onion soup paired with grilled scallops on a bed of greens, the perfect culinary delight for the cold, weary traveler—me. When we retired to the grand room, we found a group of older gentlemen from Albany engaged in a boisterous discussion about the existence of God. It was certainly the wrong time for anybody to bring up the possibility of no god in my presence, and out of respect for my faith and Bunny Boy’s death, Ward and Keith, the two agnostics out of the four of us, chose to keep silent.

  We retired for the night. The pilot light from the gas fireplace was the only light source when we walked through the door of our room; housekeeping had pulled the heavy drapes closed. Sadness enveloped me again. I pushed back the feeling and flipped on all of the lights and the radio. I sat in bed reading a select few chapters from my manuscript—the sillier ones—until I could barely keep my eyes open. I pulled the covers up and around me and fell asleep.

  The next morning, we enjoyed a delicious breakfast and sipped coffee by the windows on the sun porch while discussing the day’s plans. A smile softened my face when I noticed a mother duck and her six babies floating along Lake Skaneateles. I imagined Bunny Boy as a kit. It felt so good to smile.

  With the blazing sun overhead, the panoramic view of Lake Cayuga, our next stop, was warm and inviting. The blue skies changed hue as different clusters of clouds passed over. Around mid-afternoon, we came across the MacKenzie-Childs farmhouse and factory store on the north shore of Lake Cayuga—a destination that Keith and Ward had penciled a large red X over on our map, identifying it under “Things not to visit.” MacKenzie-Childs is a high-end retail manufacturer of unique, colorful, and often whimsical furniture and home accessories.

  “We can skip the store,” I said, “But please, we must take the house tour.” How could Ward possibly turn me down after all that had happened the previous week? Interior decorating was one of my passions. I had literally chosen every fabric sample, rug, paint color, and accessory for our own home and even helped several of my friends with theirs. Under duress, the men agreed to go on a tour of the farmhouse.

  We purchased our tickets and waited in the foyer with a dozen or so other tourists. A petite blonde girl who looked to be in her early twenties walked in wearing a pair of Victorian-style MacKenzie-Childs slippers that I recognized from their catalog. She had on a pink cashmere sweater and a navy-blue pencil skirt.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, starting the tour. “Please notice when you tour our farmhouse today that MacKenzie-Childs uses similar color schemes and many unique patterns throughout the house according to certain motifs. And one of our favorite motifs is bunnies!”

  Michele nudged me before I could react.

  “This bunny stuff is a little strange, Nance, don’t you think?”

  “Just a little,” I replied.

  Our group moved slowly from the foyer into the dining room. The cottage-style windows had patterned draperies with soft pink, bright raspberry, and white as their predominant colors—as did the dining room chairs. I almost gasped when I saw the magnificent glass top coffee table in the corner of the room. The base was made of four shimmering life-sized porcelain bunnies, hooked together as if they were dancing. My heart melted when I got up close, taking in each detail of the enchanting work of art.

  When we shuffled into the living room my eye was immediately drawn to two matching needlepoint pillows on the sofa, featuring bunnies nibbling on flowers in a garden. They gave me chills. I reached for Ward’s hand.

  “Can you believe this, honey?”

  And the bunny aura continued.

  The girl’s bedroom on the second floor had a bright yellow, pink, and green checked bedspread with yellow trellising vines along the border, almost like a picture frame. On the shabby chic bedside tables sat two white porcelain bunny lamps the size of our Bunny Boy. The bunnies had delicately painted blue eyes and pink noses. The lampshades were exquisitely trimmed with pastel pink beading. I must have one of those lamps, I thought to myself.

  It was strangely therapeutic walking through a farmhouse full of bunny-themed items. “I forgot my wallet back at the Inn, Nance,” Ward joked, as if I might not have mine.

  Despite our initial agreement, Michele and I barged through the door of the warehouse store and began exploring the fifteen thousand feet of drywall that stocked MacKenzie-Childs furniture, lamps, dinnerware, glassware, linens, drapes, notions, footwear, and candles. It was like heaven on earth. Ward and Keith parked themselves on a bench to answer emails. Soon, I noticed the very same bunny lamp out of the corner of my eye.

  “There it is, Michele,” I said. “The Lamp.” It was even dreamier up close.

  Suddenly, I heard a soft, sweet voice coming from behind me. “Do you like that lamp?” I look
ed over my shoulder. A darling girl, about ten years old, was standing next to a woman I assumed was her mother. She had cropped sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes.

  “I love it!” I said, curious as to why she had asked.

  “We’re getting a bunny tomorrow,” the girl blurted out. “I’ve always wanted a bunny.”

  I nearly dropped the pair of Victorian slippers I had been holding onto. I couldn’t help but wonder why I was here, at this very spot, in this very moment.

  “Are you really getting a bunny tomorrow?” I asked, looking at the woman.

  “We are.”

  “Are you her mom?”

  “Sort of,” the woman replied sadly. “I’m her aunt.” I could tell by the young girl’s expression that there was a part of the story I might not ever know. “She’s always wanted a pet of her own,” the woman added, looking at her niece fondly. “My husband is allergic to dogs and cats, so we thought we would buy a bunny.”

  “I’d like to tell you about my own bunny,” I suddenly stuttered. “But before I do, please promise me you won’t keep your bunny outside the house in one of those hutches!”

  “My husband just painted the hutch yesterday,” said the woman, surprised. “Why wouldn’t we keep the bunny in the hutch?”

  “You can and should train your bunny to live in the house like a dog or cat,” I said, probably with too much of an authoritative tone. The idea of any rabbit living in a hutch sickened me now. I softened my voice. “Come, let’s sit here.” We sat down on a colorful striped ottoman in the hallway. For the next few minutes, I gave them pointers on how to housetrain and raise their bunny-to-be, most likely providing more instructions than they wanted to hear. Then, I told them the abridged version of Bunny Boy’s nine-year stay on this earth—up until the moment he died in my arms. It was like a pipe had burst and all the water had come gushing out. I couldn’t help myself. A feeling of happiness rather than sadness came over me as I spoke about my beloved bunny.