Bunny Died. Need A New One.
It has been said that when you name something, you become more attached to it.
It has been said that when you name something, you become more attached to it. This was not the case for me, considering I was already attached to it from the start. I’ve always been obsessed with rabbits and I’m not sure why. Maybe it is because they are seen as innocent prey, something I can relate to. “Bunny” was what I called my adorably, black and white spotted rabbit when I tried to revive her, and Bunny is what I will always refer to her as.
I woke up to see that she was lying on the floor on her side, looking like road kill. It was after that, that I found out rabbits only lie to their side to soothe themselves from their pain. Poor Bunny. I took her out of the cage and set her on the ground. She saw me from the corner of her eye. That was the moment when she started kicking her legs, almost like a twitch. She looked as though she was trying to run, but her body wouldn’t let her. There was no surface beneath her feet holding her up, so she couldn’t move forward. Was she trying to get my attention? Was she running from me? I tried to lift her up into a walking position, but her body would not allow her. Was she experiencing a heat stroke? I took out an ice pack and started rubbing it around her, thinking it would help. She was still in pain; it did not help. Confused, I took the ice pack away from her and put food directly in front of her face. That could persuade her to start moving while I run out of the room to research the situation.
After a few minutes, I came back to find that the food was in the same place, however her expression had changed. Bunny’s mouth gaped far enough to fit her hand in it. This proved to me that she was certainly paralyzed. It also showed me that she might have been in that state the whole night. It was wrong of me to tempt her. This torture must have been equivalent to putting a chocolate sundae in front of someone starving to death, too weak to reach it. She must be famished. Water bottle! She needs water down her throat fast. By that time, only minutes had passed and she was so weak that she wasn’t able to move her own mouth.
I held her, trying to examine if she was able to move her head properly. It was floppy, but she could not move her own head herself. I hugged her gently, cradling her. She felt soft and fragile, as always. I kissed Bunny on her fluffy, furry stomach. I set her down on the floor, hearing her expel a squeaky, raspy sigh. That sound replayed in my head when I realized that was her last breath. I tried to hold her once again. This time, she was stiff. The weight of her head did not effect her body. She was fur covered cardboard, with a permanent face full of pain. This defined the word “rigor mortis” for me. I think I killed my bunny. I think I killed my bunny. I think I killed my baby bunny. I was the predator this time.
It was confirmed. Her heartbeat did not beat at a steady rate of 130-325 beats per minute anymore. I missed holding her, feeding her and even picking up her poop. To me, Bunny’s pooping was an indication and reminder that she was MY living, breathing bunny. I didn’t want a stuffed replicated bunny. 16 years of begging and I now have a dead rabbit. I only kept her breathing for a month, but it wasn’t record breaking. My hamster, Speedy, died after 3 days. As my dad wrapped her in a plastic bag -which I noticed afterwards was not quite a respectful way to treat her - I thought to myself, Bunny died. Need a new one.