I Had A Suicidal Bunnie (True Story)
When I was in sixth grade I wanted a cat.
I wanted a cat really bad, in fact I was willing to only get a cat for my birthday. I mean seriously, I ask for like 3 thousand things even when it’s not my birthday. And, I always get disappointed. I cherish and love every single item my mom gives me (my mom is exceedingly generous on festivities) but just about everyone else gets me something not even remotely related to something I want. Seriously, as for one of my aunts, you have given me deoderant every year since ’07! Is that like a hint or something? Do I smell? Well, I’m guessing right now you (reader) are kinda glad you’re a continent away and not actually watching as I smell myself discretely to check. I know it’s the thought that’s meant to count, but I’m starting to consider that no thinking was involved in this gift selection. I mean Aunt gave the same thing to all my cousins and aunts and uncles, so unless smelling is genetic I think the present is generic.
Anyways, I even tried bribing my mom with the only thing I could (I wasn’t exactly rich at the time, and it’s kinda pointless to give money back at the person who gives you it in the first place. I mean, I couldn’t even say “Look if you give a cat you needn’t give me an allowance” because, well, technically speaking I didn’t even have an allowance), naming the cat after one of her favourite people in the world, tennis player Maria Sharapova. By an unfortunate string of events the dentist the day I got this idea looked exactly like Sharapova and very quickly got that nickname instead of my imaginary cat
My mom, inspired by the fact that my friend Margaret the most organised/clean/responsible/ in the world has a cute Holland Lop, decided that no, a cat was too much trouble and I couldn’t handle it, never mind the fact that I already have one at my dad’s, and opted for a compromise. So, come my birthday, coincidentally the last day of school, me and my friends went to see a movie and we stopped at a pet store and saw Pooky, my dream pet (had he been a cat).
Nonetheless I got that cutey patootie and came to love him! Of course like with any pet, harder than actually choosing him is picking a name, so it took about 2 months to decide on Pooky, which was, obviously, inspired by Garfield’s (hmmm Garfield cat… my subconscious was working up) stuffed bear Pooky. I wasn’t entirely sure if my rabbit was a he or a she so I picked a gender neutral name. I also considered Farrusco, Fofinho, Teddy and… a lot of other probably stupid names.
Turns out my mom was right about something, I wasn’t (and still am not) all that responsible, so as much as I loved Pooky I didn’t love cleaning his tray all that much. So when my mom told me a few months latter, after I’d been at my dad’s a few days, leaving her in charge, Pooky (who had always been super frisky and prone to bitting people– warning!, bunnies aren’t as defenseless as they look) made a run for it out of his cage and jumped out of my 1st floor veranda I wasn’t exactly surprised . Sad, yes well duh, I’m not exactly a monster. Ufortunately my mom was even more devastated than me, so I had to console her. Apparently there’s real bondage when you clean up your pet’s poo.
So Pooky had made his escape for freedom. He’d always been a medow sort of rabbit, not in the least the copped-up-in-the-apartment type. But he wasn’t all that far, apparently he’d escaped from his cage when my mom wasn’t looking and was eventually found by a woman a few quilometers away who is (hopefully) taking good care of him:( . When I found out, it had been so long, that I didn’t have heart to rip away someone else’s pet… Someone who had a garden.