We packed up Lucy and took her back to the vet.
It’s better this way.
Lucy is a rabbit with spots like a snow leopard. Her ears are stark black, twitching like fat antenna.
Cindy had brought her home, basically to try her out. It seems our vet is the repository for abandoned pets found by one of the local police departments. So it often has unwanted animals needing homes. We agreed to be foster parents to Lucy for a week. Apparently we were the third family to give it a go.
Those who know us know we like pets. And we have experience with rabbits – we’ve owned three:
- Freckles, who lived outside in a pen when the kids were little. I rigged a wire run the depth of the yard so I could put a leash on Freckles; he would run up and down the yard at will.
- Smokey, who followed Freckles and also lived outside, using the same run.
- And Saucepan, a dwarf rabbit that we inherited after Meghan convinced her college roommates to invest in a rabbit. The girls’ appetite for caring for Saucepan evaporated by the second month, so Saucepan found his way to our house.
So the vet’s office thought we were a good match.
(Meghan remains a rabbit fan, now that she’s out on her own. She owns two – Oliver and Bella. They pretty much go with her everywhere, including when she’s home visiting.)
By all measures, Lucy seemed the ideal pet. She’d been housebroken, that was clear.
We could leave her cage open on the main floor, and she’d freely roam from living room to kitchen to TV room. Much to our dogs’ disappointment, she’d leave no trace behind.
She did have one bad moment – she bit into the wire of our Wii set. But the wire is very thin, I rationalized, so obviously very appetizing. Lucy did not touch our more substantial wires.
Very quickly, we took a liking to her. She and the dogs got along great; she seemed ever curious and playful. And, as I said, housebroken.
Oh … there was one small problem. Once out of her cage, it took an effort to get her back in. With Saucepan, I could say “cage” and she’d hop in. With Lucy … well, we tried that. But she refused to climb in. Even food wouldn’t coax her.
But she was, again, housebroken, so no big deal. We’d leave her loose in the fireplace room at night with her cage open, and also when we went to work.
But by the fourth day, it started to get weird. The first sign was when Cindy got home from work … and found the chair by the window, de-stuffed. Lucy had managed to chew into the back of it and drag out mounds of white fluff.
Okay, not good. But we stuffed it back in, did some sewing. No harm done.
But we decided we could no longer trust Lucy to roam freely without us around. Which really wasn’t that big a deal in theory; such was the case with Saucepan.
But, we would have to corral her before leaving the house, or heading to bed.
Easier said ...
Even with two of us in pursuit, Lucy would dodge and twist and slip and slide, hiding under furniture, behind plants, or she’d outright move more quickly than we ever could. You’ve heard of “herding cats.” This was a rabbit roundup – though a bit embarrassing for us, given it was just one rabbit.
On the fifth day, Cindy reached her limit. (Cindy was home; I was at work.) She needed the rabbit in the cage – now! She had errands to run. She managed to grab Lucy, but Lucy must have decided by now that our feelings had turned.
She bit Cindy.
Not smart.
Cindy lost her grip on Lucy ... while also losing the 35% of remaining affection she had for the critter. She grabbed our large red tablecloth. (I had suggested earlier that if worse came to worst, a blanket would to the trick … like a net. Throw it over the rabbit, gather her in, and deposit her in the cage.)
Cindy slowly walked toward the rabbit … with tablecloth spread … like a matador to a bull.
Lucy sat still, nose twitching, her eyes tracking the tablecloth as it neared, inch by inch.
And then Lucy did something that we’d never seen in our 25 years of rabbit ownership.
Lucy grunted – indeed, like a mad bull -- and charged at Cindy. Not a simple two-step in Cindy’s direction. No, this was pure aggression – those black ears were now upright like horns. And not just once. She’d charge, then back up under the coffee table, then charge again. Her grunt had turned into a growl, growing louder with each thrust.
You could imagine small, rabbit snorts coming from her nostrils. You swore her pitch-black eyes had now turned red.
Indeed, our idyllic, housebroken friend was, in fact, The Devil Rabbit.
El Diablo Conejo!!
Now Cindy was growling as well.
"I don't have time for this [bleep], you stupid-[bleep] rabbit!" she yelled.
Lucy charged yet again. But this time, Cindy was ready. She hurled the tablecloth, and it fell over Lucy like a poacher's net.
Caught!
Cindy quickly gathered the squirming mound up, walked it to the cage, and deposited its holdings. She slammed the cage shut. If there had been a key, she would have hurled it to Omaha.
Of course, we’ve all heard stories of mad rabbits. Let’s start with Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter. (“I’m late, I’m late … for a very important date!”)
My favorite, though, is from April 20, 1979, when a swimming swamp rabbit attacked President Jimmy Carter while he was fishing in Georgia.
And animal apologists will read this and argue that Lucy must have been abused at some point before she arrived. Or that our own techniques at accommodation were, er, sub-human. How else to explain why a rabbit – so docile, so mild mannered -- could abruptly turn into a terror?
But the basic fact is that we Weavers don’t ask much of our pets beyond comity and shared affection.
Lucy, after given considerable freedom, not to mention lots of food, failed both tests.
So Lucy is gone, back to the vet. (The vet’s assistant, by the way, told us upon Lucy’s return: “Oh, she charged at you, too?”)
I’m hoping she finds a home. Perhaps one more tolerable … where the owner can dress like a living-room matador, and Lucy can charge and grunt and growl.
Where the two can have their devilish fun, and pass the day away.
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