A Winter's Tale

Today, it is gloomy and rainy and dull and dank outside. While looking through some older material to cheer me up, I came across this piece, which I wrote last winter.



“The bunny is dead,” Steve whispered.

I was sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in blankets, reading about the Hemingses of Monticello. The power had been out since early morning. We had no lights, no running water, and no heat. It was cold outside, with slivers of ice dangling from wires and trees. It was chilly inside, especially whenever I left the living room and the heat of the fire. This was not my idea of the perfect day. I was not terribly happy at that moment, and I really was not interested in any bunny, alive or dead.

Eleven years ago, while visiting the Bolton Country Fair, we acquired 2 baby bunnies. They were sisters; the kids named them Mercury and Mars. One was mostly black, with a bit of a white face and the other was black and white all over her furry body. I could never remember which one was which. They lived in a hutch in the garage and annoyed the shit out of me just by their mere existence. They smelled awful, no matter how often the hutch was cleaned out. We put them into the garage because we got them in late September and they were so tiny that it seemed cruel to put them outside and subject them to the cold winter. Big mistake. After they were used to the garage, the rest of the family insisted, how could we possibly dump them outside? I had a few answers to that question but kept them to myself.

I am not an animal person. Oh, I love puppies. And my own sloppy black lab. Other people's dogs I like as long as they leave me alone after I perform my obligatory “aren't you the cutest thing ever” routine. I get annoyed when they hang around for more attention. And I get even more annoyed when they shed all over my black pants. It was pure mother guilt that led me to agree to the purchase of baby bunnies. What's the big deal, I thought. They'll hang out in a hutch, the kids will feed them and learn responsibility. Hah.

Like all novelty items, Mars and Mercury received plenty of attention at first. They were promptly fed carrots and hay and some little pellet food which we were constantly running out of. The kids held them and petted them and trimmed the nails of their crazy little rabbit feet. They made sure their water bottles were full. This lasted all of 6 months, which is actually not too bad. Then the 2 oldest totally lost interest. They had school, they had friends, they were busy. Connor, almost 5, took over the tasks but still had to be reminded to do so. Mars and Mercury continued to stink up the garage, and grow chubby and contented. I'm guessing at the contented part because I never heard them complain.

Whenever we went on vacations, we had to make sure someone could come in and feed the bunnies. I know this does not sound like a big deal, but it bothered me that we had to pay someone to stop by, and throw some hay and a carrot into the hutch every day. As time went on, other people began to comment on the bunnies' ages. How long do they live? I looked it up: 6 years. Maybe it was because they had each other, but they were hanging on for a lot longer than that. Then about a year ago, there was news from the hutch.

One of the bunnies (the mostly black one, still don't know her name) was looking a little funny. She wasn't moving as much and didn't seem to be eating. Her head was tilting to one side. Steve and Connor were inconsolable and steeled themselves for bad news. A few days later, she died. They buried her in the back yard, in one of my shoe boxes. I was extra generous and picked a Cole Haan box for the occasion. Ok, I thought. Once one bunny is gone, the other can't be far behind. Connor was horrified by my lack of feeling. He made some routine trips out the grave site to pay his respects and reprimanded me for not going with him.

Cut to the current ice storm and power outage and Steve's declaration. He shared more details than I was interested in: she hasn't moved in a full day. He made a ton of noise in the garage while he was hauling in wood, and she didn't respond. I began to think of ways to dispose of the hutch. It would free up quite a bit of space in the garage. “Have you told Connor yet?” I asked. “No.” “Well, you'll probably want to get her buried before it gets dark, so you'd better get a move on.” I threw off the blankets and left for a hair appointment in the powered up, more civilized town next door and while having the color applied, I texted a friend, who, like the boys in my family, is a bunny-lover: The oldest living bunny known to mankind has gone to the big meadow in the sky. Finally. Steve and Connor are beside themselves. I am having my hair colored. Love, Glenn Close.

Inexplicably, the weather warmed up a bit mid afternoon and it became one of those strange winter days when it is warmer outside than it is inside. When I arrived home, I came in through the back door rather than the garage because, really, who wants to see a dead bunny. The power was still out so I began scavenging for candles and matches. It was getting dark outside. Quickly. The mourners gathered their implements: gloves, shovels, an ax in case the ground was very frozen. They were both somber and serious. “It's the end of an era,” Connor declared dramatically. He looked at me to make sure his pronouncement had the appropriate effect. Apparently unsatisfied, he went into my closet himself and claimed a Joan and David box for the ceremony. They had held my black cowboy boots, but, hey, I bit my lip and made the sacrifice.

In the meantime, I grabbed my Blackberry, its battery still intact and googled the Burlington Marriott. There is not one iota of camping or survivalist blood in my body; a pile of blankets and candlelight weren't going to cut it. Never mind a dead bunny. I needed a martini bar, a George Clooney movie, and a toilet that would flush. And I needed them now.

Steve and Connor trooped outside, dug their hole in the ground, and went into the garage to retrieve the bunny body. I heard laughter and yelling and then they burst back into the house. “She's alive!” They were ridiculously giddy with excitement, jumping up and down and hugging each other. How is this possible? She apparently was just cold, like the rest of us, and stayed as still as possible to conserve her energy. “Wow, Dad, I guess she fooled you!” They both howled uncontrollably at the cosmic joke. Then they ran back into the garage to spend more quality time with the resurrected rabbit. I think she even got an extra carrot that night.

So, it's back to square one. We still have an 11 year old rabbit. I still have to make sure the windows on my car are closed tight while it is in the garage so the icky rabbit smell doesn't permeate the inside of my car. I'm crossing my fingers that the damn bunny doesn't have 9 lives. Meantime, I can be reached at the Marriott.