Our dear rabbit

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There is an absence in our house this morning. A small rustling that isn’t heard. A cute face not peeking out from a bed of hay.

Our little rabbit died yesterday, and it was with great solemnity that I headed out to dig a grave in the backyard.

Rabbi, as he was best known, was my younger daughter’s pet. She had been asking for a pet- pig, horse- for years and when the opportunity came up to get a rabbit, I thought it would be a perfect starter pet for competent tweenager.  

The rabbit was a constant source of concern; requiring new cages, new foods, and new cleaning protocols. I watched over the little creature but failed in the end, with much regret.

Two weeks ago, my daughter noticed the rabbit was losing fur on his feet. I went to google and found the condition was likely urine scald; bunny getting his feet wet with pee causing skin irritation. I googled some more and got advice from a hobby farm Facebook group I joined.

We washed his feet regularly with saline water, kept the cage cleaned and full of hay, giving him several hours a day out of his hutch; he seemed to be getting better. But yesterday when we went to give him carrot scraps from supper, he was gone.

As parents we allow our children to have pets for several reasons; to learn responsibility, for companionship, and eventually, to learn lessons about death and loss before they start to lose important people in their lives.

This is not our first pet loss, and we have gone through the loss of some important humans too. It’s all part of life, losing the people and pets we care about. And it isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. But you get better at dealing with loss, learn to live with the absences.

My daughter and I both feel sadness about the death of our little rabbit. It was difficult not seeing and hearing him this morning.

In our book of thankfuls yesterday, the only thing I could think to write was that I was thankful the ground had warmed up enough that I could dig a little grave.

Condolences

I was asked to come and cover this reception and memories of Raymond Delorey today. Raymond died last week at the age of 59; an active, vibrant man still working and living life to the fullest.

Before I have even seen the family; I'm feeling the miniature eruptions of grief within me,

I'm not good at facing death with a stiff upper lip and I am not sure why we should. I think it may be better to cry freely at our losses.

Every time I hear of a death-even one that only touches my life in a very small way-it opens up the wounds of every loss I have ever incurred and makes me think of the grief that I know the family is suffering.

This man; father, husband, grandfather and friend to many, died suddenly and unexpectedly. It's never easy to deal with grief and being here in the capacity of work hasn't made it any more so.

I feel crushed and as the people who attended the funeral begin to enter the hall- I can't look at them without swallowing tears for what they have lost.

I really don't know how I'm going to do my job today.

Later...

As I sat getting ready to listen to the eulogy someone I knew asked me where I was working these days and I in turn told her what I was doing and in what capacity I was at the service. She suggested that I could talk to the older gentleman I was seated next to; he had worked with Raymond for over 40 years.

A few minutes after I turned on the tape both the man and myself were crying and I just had to turn it off. I said, “ I just can't do this job today.”

The woman asked me if I had known Raymond well; I get so upset at these events it would be an easy assumption to make, but in fact knew him but in passing. I know his daughter, his wife, his daughter-in-law, his grandchildren- but also just as acquaintances. 

My grief is for them; for the place that is now and forever vacant in their lives. I know that loss and nothing makes it better- you just learn to live with part of your soul amputated.