Not for the faint of art. |
Before I met her, my wife was offered a fluffy white rabbit by someone who was about to move. She already had two bunnies, and declined. Well, the someone moved, and a couple days later, Kirstin found the bunny under a car, his fur all matted and greasy. Angora bunnies don't survive in the wild. They're pets, or commercial sources of angora fur. She took him in, and for about six years he hopped around, looking cute and causing trouble. He always managed to chew through live electric cords without getting himself shocked; just about every lamp in the house has electrical tape wrapped around a splice. His name was Bucky, but everyone called him "The Fluffy Bunny" or just "The Bunny." When we married, we were like the Brady Bunch, me with my three cats and her with the three rabbits. The cats ("Kitties!" [E]) never knew quite what to make of him, and they pretty much left each other alone. The other rabbits eventually went away: Lucy got very sick, and Pudge went to live with someone else. Sunday, The Bunny jumped off a tabletop and tore a claw off. Monday, he went to the vet, but when he got back he still didn't seem quite right, so he went again today. For the last time. It wasn't the injury that laid him low, but kidney failure. He was a good bunny. |