I’m in a bit of a blogger’s rut here, and so I’ve been glued to my sagging couch, glutting myself in this rare occurrence of all-three-napping-simultaneously at the buffet of the internet’s Monday offerings. This, this, and most especially this were all well worth the click. In other news, we have 8 flipping inches of snow on our deck and I have bagged up 4 bags worth of crap in the form of books, toys, clothes I hate on my self/children and random socks, and I’m not done yet.
Snow day in May, punch me in the face.
But I’m not here to talk to you about the weather, or about trash bags full of broken thrift store toys and pillows shaped like Thomas the Train.
I’m here to talk to you about the dangers of gateway pets, and how your happy family can be led down the garden path by dangerous creatures like these:
But think older and with less adorably floppy ears.
This is the story of how we recently inherited, bonded with, and promptly lost a family heirloom pet. Gather round and I’ll spin you the tale…
It was a long, long time ago… actually, last Tuesday, and my sister in law dropped by with a very special visitor who we agreed to host for…an indefinite period of time. She’s getting married in less than a week, and her newly-wedded lease agreement does not extend to furry tenants.
So Roo the bunny was to become ours. Roo’s original owner, my other brilliant sister in law, had moved overseas and couldn’t get a bunny past customs, or something like that, so we were this poor fluffy guy’s last chance at domestic tranquility. In other words, the poor slob never stood a chance.
So Roo, his cage, his food and beverage supplies, and his pile of filthy bunny blankets became a part of our little family. And for 5 wonderful days, life was full. He hopped tranquilly around our fenced backyard, nibbling grass and accepting dandelions and strawberry tops from the sticky paws of his new owners, and all was well.
Until yesterday morning.
Upon waking to a wintery mix of Mother Nature’s springtime fury, I thought it wise to check on the little fellow, what with sleet blowing sideways. His cage was covered but I still thought he might be chilly. I tottered out in my church clothes with a fistful of baby carrots and stopped dead in my tracks: his cage was open, and it was empty.
There were no signs of foul play, other than the dangling door, but my heart sank, because here was this 9-year-old bunny (can you even believe they can live that long?) who had weathered multiple cross-country moves AND an entire year of life in the wild, wild west of my little sister’s forrest-y backyard and we had lost him in 5. fricking. days.
Even better, his rightful owner, the globe-trotting SIL, was due to touch down on Colorado soil in a matter of days for the aforementioned wedding. And now I had to cop to losing her beloved furry friend in record time.
Barking instructions at Joey to run for some bunny food and a flashlight, I started frantically crawling around the perimeter of my backyard, peering under snowy bushes and crouching to see into the darkest recesses of the space below our deck.
No blood, no fur, no beady little eyes glaring back at me…the rabbit was/is gone.
And this morning, Joey, after glumly surveying the empty cage, asked for a puppy.
Lord have mercy, it has begun.
If you give a boy a bunny…
I’m not completely giving up hope on our wandering furry friend, but I’m less optimistic after waking up to this on May 12th: