Chapter 87 – Here’s the Story
One evening, near bedtime, Enzo and Merlot stared up at Dad. Enzo wondered, “Dad, Merlot and I wonder how you started with rabbits. Abigail said she was da first. But she never said why you got her.”
Dad replied, “Well, to tell the truth, I had never even considered having rabbits as house pets until I came home from a trip one day to find my ex-girlfriend pet-sitting two dwarf rabbits here. After spending three weeks with them, I was hooked. How about if I read you the story that your aunt Chelsea wrote about me?”
Oh boy, a bedtime story! Enzo and Merlot liked bedtime stories. They snuggled up beside each other. They were “all ears.”
Dad said, “OK, here’s the story.”
From Grief to Grace
By Chelsea Eng
My friend’s summer had been marked by grief. His beloved cat, Miss Bean, his steadfast mate of 14 years, had respiratory failure. The wrenching decision to euthanize reduced Maurice to convulsive sobs. Past breakups – even his divorce – never drew such tears.
Heart-raw, and acutely aware of Miss Bean’s absence (“I went to share the milk from my cereal bowl – our morning ritual – only to realize she wasn’t there.”) Maurice found himself pet-sitting a pair of dwarf rabbits, Mia and Bear, in his home. Photo texts ensued. An orange tray laden with fresh greens, carrots, hay and pellets: “Tonight’s dinner”. Mia, the gray dwarf bunny, snuggled on his chest.
“Are you going to adopt a rabbit?” I asked.
“No,” he shot back. “I want a cat.”
Fast forward a few weeks. Urgent text: “I’m having a moral quandary re: adopting a rabbit. Can you call me?”
I excused myself from lunch and slipped out into the sunshine to oblige. Maurice’s voice teetered with tension. “There’s this one-year-old rabbit that’s living in a cage… not a great situation. But he doesn’t like to be held or even touched particularly. I mean – I could adopt a baby rabbit and perhaps raise it to be affectionate… But I feel for this grown rabbit, because baby rabbits – Well, you know – it’s like with kittens – They get adopted more easily…”
“I believe in the transformative power of love,” I offered, in the gentle tone I assume when teaching yoga. “I’m sure the one-year-old would grow to trust you in time.”
He worried aloud, “One of my friends said, ‘You’re going to adopt a rabbit?!? That’s as un-manly as your purple sparkle dune buggy!’ Do you think people will think that?”
“Oh, Maurice!” I growled, done with New Age niceties. “That’s just stupid! Look – I’m not going to tell you what to do, but – you need a companion, and that bunny needs a home. Adopt the one-year-old. That’s what I say!”
In a gift shop I stumbled upon a greeting card bearing the face of a hare, its ears erect and eyes full of mischief. The heading read “Good Luck”. I popped it in the mail to Maurice.
The fateful text: “I adopted the rabbit. I think I’ll name him Mister B – in honor of Miss Bean.” But a veterinary trip revealed the one-year-old was, in fact, female. “I’m going to call her Abigail… I love her!” Maurice affirmed. “I think Miss Bean orchestrated your meeting Abigail,” I observed.
Upon scouting baby cards, I found a sketch of a bunny in a diaper bound with pink pins. The heading read “It’s a Girl!” I popped it in the mail to Maurice.
My parents shared in my delight that our longtime family friend had a new furry adoptee and were, like me, eager to meet her in-rabbit. We entered Maurice’s always immaculate home by way of his museum-worthy garage, abode of gleaming Vipers, snowmobiles, and the purple sparkle dune buggy.
“There she is! ‘Hi, Baby,’” Maurice announced in one breath. At the base of a tall window in the living room sat a Netherland dwarf bunny. My parents took to the couch, while Maurice and I knelt down on the carpeted floor. Together we formed an adoring audience for the Star of the night – a chestnut fluff ball who eyed us with caution.
Abigail approached me, let me pet her for a few seconds, then dashed off. I was thrilled! Moments later, she catapulted into the air, flicking her hind legs back like a modern dancer on turbo boost. She literally jumped for joy! “That’s called a binky!” Maurice grinned. Off she sped in rapid circles ‘round the dining room table. “That’s the Abigail 500,” he added.
Fresh from the Bunny Speedway, Abigail returned to approach me again. Only this time, she presented herself and stayed put. She lowered her head, let me pet her between darling ears, and seemed to look into my soul. To be trusted by one so small and vulnerable was an honor. To commune with this sweet being was sublime. In the way of great spiritual teachers – without words and without force — she helped expand my heart.
“And that’s how the House of Buns began,” concluded Dad.
Enzo thought, “Dat a nice story, Dad. We glad you falled in love wit rabbits!”
