“Today is a somber day because we are going to be killing rabbits,” she said. “But I am always psyched after slaughter because I’m like, now I’m going to eat.”
I chose the completely white one, which I came to learn later was an albino. Nobody tells an eight year old girl who wants a white rabbit: "Albinos aren't healthy and are more prone to common diseases, so you should probably choose one of the multi-color rabbits who you find more plebeian but are less likely to bite the dust." So I was allowed to get the white one, and I named her Snow Bunny. I know, completely FREAKING original.
So Snow Bunny was about as cute as an inanimate object could be. She ate, her nose and whiskers twitched in an amusing fashion, she pooped a mountain of Rasinetes every day, and she slept. Her likes were: carrots, kale, hay, and my mother; her dislikes were: cats, foxes, and the plow truck. She was a simple creature.
She lived a languid, lackluster existence of completely boring comfort: 6 months outdoors in her Joel-van-Lennep-original cage (complete with fox-proof top), and 6 months indoors, living in the kitchen under the sliding door and perilously close to foot traffic. Seasons passed, and Snow Bunny got renamed to Snow Boulder, due to her ever-burgeoning size and increasing passivity.
Then on Febuary 13th, 1997, Snow Boulder fell ill. Her breathing became heavy, she moved EVEN LESS than usual. I was in fourth grade, and even though I knew that my pet was no fun at all, I was still bummed out by the prospect of poor Snow Boulder's demise. So the next day, in a snowstorm, my mom and I drove Snow Boulder to the vet. It was valentine's day. And Snow Boulder was promptly diagnosed with breast cancer. Was it operable?! What about chemo? Radiation?!?!? The questions of a overly-informed fourth grader spiraled out of control.
My mom chuckled, and said "No, I'm afraid honey, that Snow Boulder and her genetic predispositions have gotten the better of her. She may have been better suited to playing the main role in a savory stew, than being a household friend." Hard words for a fourth grader to hear, mind you, but both of my parents were at the end of their rope with this goddamned bunny rabbit, because LORD KNOWS I was not good at taking care of it.
So after the mammary exam, the vet--a rather dull-eyed female in her 30s--tried to extract Snow Boulder from her carrying case to no avail. She was too large to be removed through the front entry hole unwillingly, and she was most certainly not willing. Then ensued the epic battle. Veterinarian, battles bunny in battle royale, each fighting to prove herself the victor. Really, the vet went after Snow Boulder with such aggressiveness that as soon as she managed to wrench Snow Boulder from her little cage, the bunny went flying, trying desperately to escape this crazy witch. This sudden burst of activity, in combination with years of immobility and a touch of breast cancer, was just too much for Snow Boulder. After a quick bolt off the examination table, around it once, and under the bench where my mom was seated, Snow Boulder had a heart attack and died. After attaching the AED and doing rounds of CPR, we realized there was no bringing her back. Just kidding.
So I cried a little bit, my mom comforted me, probably thinking what a blessing it was to be out from under this metaphorical and literal boulder, and we went home, minus one bunny rabbit.
Now at the time, this was pretty serious stuff for a nine year old, but I've since come around, and feel as though perhaps Snow Boulder was, as my mom had alluded to, much better-suited to being dinner than a pet. So, in response to today's NYT article, "Rabbit for Dinner: Don't Tell the Kids," I have to say I can't agree more.
BRING ON THE STEW!
