I remember all the mooshy faces peering at me, wondering if I have food.
I remember the loud bunny footsteps racing over. Or away- when they were cross.
I remember the slurp that some of them made when they drunk water.
I remember the crunch crunch of pellets being eaten.
I remember the gooey, squelchy noise of eaten banana.
I remember the warm feeling of licks on my trousers.
And the tickle of licks to my face.
I remember the comedic bunnies who made me laugh every day.
I remember the occasional escapee and the stress that goes with that.
I remember changing how I walked so I didn’t kick anyone. The ‘Badger Shuffle’.
I remember each new face and getting to know them for who they were.
I remember being landed on and woken up in the middle of the night.
I remember those who could jump on the beds.
I remember the Mountain Goat bunny.
I remember failed jumps and accidental landings.
I remember those super high, out of control binkies.
I remember their excitement of new spaces and new toys.
I remember those who discovered making noise at night woke me up and then I’d give them food. I don’t recommend this.
I remember cutting masses and masses of nails and how everyone needed it done slightly differently.
I remember being greeted at the door by those who wanted to see me (or rather, wanted food).
I remember the funny places they would hide in.
I remember those moments of panic at a spontaneous dead bunny flop.
I remember the particular types of ways that each would like to be stroked; a tickle, a rub, on the nose, the back, the ears.
I remember the weight of my bunny on my lap.
I remember the hours of cuddles after countless dentals.
I remember buying a seven seater car so I could transport them all at once so if I ever needed to leave or flee, I didn’t have to choose.
I remember the destroyed tops and jeans and blankets.
I remember all the pre-neuter spraying.
I remember the random and unhelpful peeing. It’s not fun when it’s on your laptop.
I remember when the vets felt like home because we’d be there five days out of seven.
I remember the days of giving out 49 sets of medication.
I remember each and every death. The absolute privilege of holding them as they left.
I remember countless memories that I’ll never be able to express on words.
I remember arranging my whole, entire life around their needs.
I remember when my room felt full and warm.
And now my body remembers picking up pellets to give a treat every time I go into my bedroom. Every. Single. Time.
Only now there is no one to treat. My body still remembers and tries to treat.
But there is no one.
No furry face to greet me. Or ignore me.
My bunnies are now only a memory. For 33 years, I’ve had rabbits.
Now there is no one.
So I treasure those memories that I have. Because they are all I have.
(I don’t know if this is the right place to post this but it’s about loss, so it’s probably here).
I remember the loud bunny footsteps racing over. Or away- when they were cross.
I remember the slurp that some of them made when they drunk water.
I remember the crunch crunch of pellets being eaten.
I remember the gooey, squelchy noise of eaten banana.
I remember the warm feeling of licks on my trousers.
And the tickle of licks to my face.
I remember the comedic bunnies who made me laugh every day.
I remember the occasional escapee and the stress that goes with that.
I remember changing how I walked so I didn’t kick anyone. The ‘Badger Shuffle’.
I remember each new face and getting to know them for who they were.
I remember being landed on and woken up in the middle of the night.
I remember those who could jump on the beds.
I remember the Mountain Goat bunny.
I remember failed jumps and accidental landings.
I remember those super high, out of control binkies.
I remember their excitement of new spaces and new toys.
I remember those who discovered making noise at night woke me up and then I’d give them food. I don’t recommend this.
I remember cutting masses and masses of nails and how everyone needed it done slightly differently.
I remember being greeted at the door by those who wanted to see me (or rather, wanted food).
I remember the funny places they would hide in.
I remember those moments of panic at a spontaneous dead bunny flop.
I remember the particular types of ways that each would like to be stroked; a tickle, a rub, on the nose, the back, the ears.
I remember the weight of my bunny on my lap.
I remember the hours of cuddles after countless dentals.
I remember buying a seven seater car so I could transport them all at once so if I ever needed to leave or flee, I didn’t have to choose.
I remember the destroyed tops and jeans and blankets.
I remember all the pre-neuter spraying.
I remember the random and unhelpful peeing. It’s not fun when it’s on your laptop.
I remember when the vets felt like home because we’d be there five days out of seven.
I remember the days of giving out 49 sets of medication.
I remember each and every death. The absolute privilege of holding them as they left.
I remember countless memories that I’ll never be able to express on words.
I remember arranging my whole, entire life around their needs.
I remember when my room felt full and warm.
And now my body remembers picking up pellets to give a treat every time I go into my bedroom. Every. Single. Time.
Only now there is no one to treat. My body still remembers and tries to treat.
But there is no one.
No furry face to greet me. Or ignore me.
My bunnies are now only a memory. For 33 years, I’ve had rabbits.
Now there is no one.
So I treasure those memories that I have. Because they are all I have.
(I don’t know if this is the right place to post this but it’s about loss, so it’s probably here).
