<img src=imgs/vevi1.jpg align=left>My family's pet bunny rabbit died in my arms yesterday. His illness was sudden–I had just come back from the veterinarian after he had suddenly become listless that morning.

January 20th would have been the ten year anniversary of his arrival in my childhood home. Considering that rabbits in the wild usually live to one or two years and house rabbits like ours don't usually live past six or so, ten years is an extraodinarily long life for a bunny.

The most important thing about house rabbits is that their temperament is directly related to how lovingly they were raised. Maltreated animals turn into nasty animals because they can't trust humans.
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<img src=imgs/vevi2.jpg align=left>Everyone who came to visit loved our bunny rabbit–he was always friendly and never afraid of humans. We loved him and kept him safe from predators and other mortal dangers, and so he was an innocent, a happy, loving animal. This was the exchange we offered him–we will keep you from becoming streetwise and you'll live a long, protected life. (Many people want to achieve this with their children, but it's really only possible with animals.)

I remember when we first got him, I would hold him in my arms on put him down on my chest and admire him, amazed at how cute he was and how a tiny little creature could be so lively and loving and playful. I would stare at him, trying to figure out the geometry of his face and body, and how could he be so enthrallingly adorable.
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<img src=imgs/vevi3.jpg align=left>Sometimes he would lay down on his belly with his paws outstretched before him, like the sphinx. Sometimes he would curl up in a tight ball. Sometimes he would be sitting and suddenly, (almost violently) flip himself over onto his side, because rabbits' posture makes it difficult to upend themselves. In fact, rabbits don't usually like to be anything but right side up–I was the only person he let hold him upside down in my arms as if cradling a baby. Even after prolonged absences, he would always recognize me and jump up to lick my face and play with me.

My mother is now all alone in the house. She considered our bunny her third child. He was, and she's devastated.

I had been dreading 'the phone call' ever since I went away to college; whenever I thought about my bunny there was always a foreboding thought about the uncertainty of his lifespan in the back of my mind. Now, at least, I know the end of his story–he dies peacefully in my arms. I don't believe in an afterlife, even though the thought is awfully comforting. I believe in this life. For whatever it's worth, we all just get one chance to touch other peoples' lives. My rabbit's life was more successful in that respect than many humans'. He was a very lucky bunny, and I miss him so badly.

The pictures, by the way, were taken two years ago, when I took care of him for a week while my mother and sister went on vacation.

Thanks for indulging me and my maudlin, grief-stricken essays.