November 13, 2004

He's not the White Rabbit...

but we can call him the off-White Rabbit. He is most certainly my Bunny. He doesn't speak, but he doesn't need to. Bunny boo-bear. Boo-ba-lou-ey. Boo-bear-ski. Goofy-boo. And an endless litany of related names. Formally named Bunny Boy; his previous companion called him "Mr. P." Yes, I have a house rabbit. He's grey and brown and weighs about six pounds, part Angora and part Jersey wooly. He gets groomed more regularly than I.

He was billed as agoraphobic, when that is a closer description of me. I will go out to buy Bunny food more often than I will cook myself dinner. Purchasing food, then applying heat to it is not my strong point. Fortunately, I do have an extensive menu drawer and a good working knowledge of the telephone.

Bunny's got a good life: three square meals a day, plus all the hay he can eat (pellets for breakfast, fresh veggies for lunch and dinner), all the water he can drink, a clean cage every other day, and the chance to come out and play whenever he wants.

Nothing is too inconsequential to be considered toy-worthy. I ask, when was the last time you were entertained for hours by the prospect of chewing on a piece of cardboard? Or tossing a beanie baby in the air?

Particularly after this recent election, Bunny seems wise beyond measure. The only things that upset him are the vacuum or a drafty floor, and I'm not too crazy about those either.

Frequently I have been asked, why don't you get a cat? Or a dog? Because I didn't grow up with pets. If I'd wanted to be a full-time caretaker, I would have had a child. Bunny's needs and abilities are juxtaposed well with my own.


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