I'll never forget seeing Bunnicula for the first time in late November 2001. He was an albino, supposedly a girl, and easily the cutest 7-week-old bunny of those in his cage. The only red-eyed one in the bunch, his white fur looked matted. Although I saw him briefly, I little suspected that he would change my life. Days before I wanted a rabbit with his coloring.
On his trip home, he was the first bunny at the door, scooped up, and put in a clothes-basket. A door wasn't closed properly that night, but I didn't know it. In plain sight in the basket stood the little bundle with fluffy fur looking innocently at me. I was beginning to fall under his spell.
He crawled around on our legs, quickly adjusted to being home, and being so curious, was given freedom too soon--the living room. I was so shocked seeing him on the stairs for the first time.
Then he began to chew, causing more anxiety than I'd like to mention!But he was also so affectionate and loved to be petted, so I was won over. I read about rabbits before I saw Bunnicula, tried to make my family understand and give solutions.
Then at 5 months old, we learned he was a boy. At 6 months he stopped growing. He'd gone from being very tiny to a large-framed, almost medium-sized rabbit, with very small leg bones than never grew and short legs. After he was a year old and filled out, I found out his breed--half New Zealand and Mini Rex (he had the softest fur when groomed). Still cute but handsome, he was to later become more sedative but stayed feisty, opinionated, curious, spoiled rotten, friendly and loving. He learned by himself to beg for treats far worse than a dog, but who could resist feeding him?
His chronic infection began when he was 1 1/2. When it began recurring, we got very worried. We knew the cause and it was preventable, but some bunnies kept getting it despite the best possible care. Sadly, his little body didn't do one thing right.
When he was 2, some carpet blocked his very narrow small intestine, and after little progress, the doctor said that if it didn't improve in two days, he'd have surgery. Miraculously, with prayer and lots of loving attention, he escaped surgery.
He loved to lick my face and hands, whether I had my head on the chest which he loved to lay on, or curled up on the floor. His love for food and frequent begging made him fat, which worried me. Bunnicula belonged to me, but he had "co-owners" that didn't take my advice.
He did binkies (jumping in the air), which was funny to watch! He didn't like being caged at night and tried to rule the house (later I said he was just the Prince while we were Kings and Queens).
When he begged, he'd do many funny stuff--run around or between our feet, stand on his hind legs and half-lower and raise himself in excitement, or even eat the food while it was in our hands! He hopped fast to be fed.
A wonderful memory I have was when he would be deliberately coaxed or run up the stairs to my room by himself. Several times he got bored, or couldn't chew some stuff, so he wanted out. What confusion I'd have when he wanted out, then want back in! He'd scratch the door with his declawed front feet, sometimes waking me up in the morning! But when we came down together at night, he'd sit on the stairway landing, and I'd sit down with my head beside his, and I'd pet him. He'd "kiss" by licking my face, grind his teeth in enjoyment, and look so peaceful and innocent. It would calm anyone down.
But a time before he died, he wasn't petted so much. It happened gradually. He was as much loved, but I always regretted my ignorance and would pet him, especially at night.
In late May 2006, he had his infection again, but there was an abnormality. An ultrasound revealed it was at stage 2 (it was always stage 1 before). Treatment to prevent it from advancing to the final, very painful stage 3 began aggressively. But in 3 weeks it reached stage 3.
How he withstood the pain without a loss of appetite or depression for 3 months, I'll never know. I knew he had a special, sincere personality, but he was always inclined to not eat when he was in pain. He miraculously appeared as normal as ever. Treatment continued, and though he could be a little aggressive under tense situations--he hated being picked up, car rides, and any unfamiliar place--he gave no one trouble during injections. He was one of the best veterinary patients. I started medication, not expensive surgery, to get him better. But stage 2 kept coming back, frightening me. Only Bunnicula's sturdy constitution gave me comfort.
His ears began to shake from hypothermia days before he died. He'd had it before without an illness, but this time we didn't suspect anything serious.
But the evening of August 28, 2006, my mother and I went to a party at a nearby house. When I got home, Bunnicula seemed normal. It was after nine o'clock, and we didn't suspect at all that the end was very close at hand.
In the morning, he had not ate and didn't leave his cage. He went to the vet without me. When I got off of work, I received the worst news--he had hypothermia, and his body couldn't withstand the illness. The moment I heard the news over the phone, I was in tears. My mother gave me three options--care at home or the vet's, or surgery. Euthanasia, which was mentioned, was kept from me, but my mom knew he was dying. I asked her if he was dying, but the vet said they didn't know, but that he could die within 2 days.
I decided to care for him at home, but I immediately phoned a friend I saw at the party the night before and tearfully told her that I felt incapable of taking care of him. Yet I would never have left him alone at the vet now--he needed to be with his family. We'd try to get him to eat again.
My friend told me that a walk might clear my brain, that I was not forgotten. I followed her advice, prayed, and I had an unnatural peace come to me that stayed a while. At home, Bunnicula didn't take much of his medicine, and was laid in my lap early that evening. He was not a lap bunny, and I'd always wanted him to be. This time my wish came true. With a heating blanket wrapped in a towel over his ears, he was so cute, just like a baby. He was to be put to sleep the next day, and my family prayed. I shed some tears, but felt all right about putting him to sleep. There I was, fairly peaceful, but I'd wanted him, at almost 5 years old, to live to be at least 8. He was loved so much I didn't want to lose him.
But close to nine o'clock, almost 3 hours after he went into my lap, I knew something strange was happening. I called for help to put him in his cage. My brother did so. Bunnicula seemed paralyzed. When I tried to raise Bunnicula up on his feet to make sure, he made a small wincing sound, which left me very alarmed.
With his head facing away from my brother, who came to his side, he moved his head as best as he could backwards. A front leg spasmed temporarily, and he breathed heavily. I could no longer help him after petting him for hours on my lap.
I called my mother, who was coming back. Matthew petted Bunnicula, and he succeeded in slowing his breathing down before he passed away in what was probably 2 minutes. He didn't scream, suffocate, and was comforted right to the end. Nothing frightening happened, but we were grief-stricken and scared.
While I was on the phone, Matthew said he thought he was dead. My mom asked if we were sure. He looked dead, and Matthew couldn't find a heartbeat.
I could hardly bear to look at him, though he was good-looking even in death. He was much too young, and it all happened so fast that my mind was very unfocused. Of all the pets I had, he'd lived almost half as long as some of them, but was easily the best-loved.
When my mom came back, he was in a box. She and I looked inside. We sealed the box and put it in the garage. After work the next day, we gathered again to do a little funeral. The whole day, I'd been numb emotionally. I went back to the box before the funeral and touched it. It was my last connection with Bunnicula. Probably the night before I told him he was a little bit of heaven, but he went there.
The four of us walked to the grave with me leading and my brother holding the box. With tear-stained eyes I tried to look at it. My father first started by asking us to mention some things they loved about Bunnicula. There were many things, but I repeated some of them and mentioned more. Then as the prayer was given, I looked at the box inside the grave at my feet and up at the sky. Though I'd tried to hide my face, everyone knew I'd been crying.
When my brother and Dad were about to dig up the grave, I went inside with my mother, against my will. Sitting down, with violent tears, I cried Bunnicula's name out, wishing fervently that he was alive and well. I felt that I'd never see him again when I died, and the thought was too much to bear.
There was a stillness in the house as if something was gone that wasn't revealed. It left after a time, more or less. My memories were not vivid--at times it seemed that Bunnicula hadn't existed. For a while I didn't have memories that were strong enough that they seemed to be happening, real. Begging for treats wasn't thought of as much as expected. His cage and other things were taken out the day after he died. The house not only felt different, a part of me seemed to go when Bunnicula passed away. He had to be remembered very well.
I have gone through a strange phase--sometimes I could laugh at a funny memory, not think much about him at all, and cry. But it feels like a long time since he left, and things seemed normal. I crave the few opportunities I get for something fresh and adventurous. Bunnicula was that. I tend to love animals more than people because they don't make me nervous much at all, and I can tell them my innermost thoughts and hurts without fear of criticism.
It isn't a wonder that I miss him. I don't think I'll find another pet as wonderful to me as Bunnicula was. He was a pet most people would at least be fond of. Though wonderfully perceptive and cautious, he was picky about people, but he liked those who were gentle, genuine, and not afraid of him. I rarely found people who didn't like him! Among those he'd meet occasionally or only once, most of the time they knew my enthusiasm for him was not unfounded. He was a darling to many for his independence and zest, suggested just by a look at his face. Bunnicula, my precious bunny, was so loved, and he gave love back.