You are the bane of my existence. I despise every single thing about you. The mere site of you makes me want to wretch.

No, it’s not my teenager thinking these thoughts, glaring at me with dark, sullen, flashing eyes. It’s my bunny.

Oddly enough, I never even wanted a bunny. I acquired her against my will and when the opportunity came to get rid of her (exactly seven days after my daughter brought her home and then got tired of her), I couldn’t bring myself to give her back. My daughter absolved all responsibility for her from that point on, and Bunny became mine and mine alone.

It was fine at first. Life was a bit bumpy back in January and a soft, quiet little bunny on your tummy is a soothing way to unwind. Except for one thing. Bunnies pee. Without warning. They’re nothing more than fur-covered bladders with wiggly noses.

Besides, Bunny grew less and less fond of quiet, bonding moments, much preferring to run free in the bathroom, me planted on the side of the bathtub watching her cavort. You can only do this every night for so many months before it erodes your sanity.

I couldn’t leave her in a plain old cramped cage, though. This was a special bunny, who deserved the best of everything. Even a rabbit hutch wouldn’t do. No, my bunny needed room to romp. Soon, she had her own collapsible metal dog run, sitting under a shady tree. Yes, she is a tad spoiled.

Did Bunny appreciate these deluxe accommodations? About as much as she appreciated her fluffy little bed, which she promptly pooped on. Message received.

In much the same sentiment, the moment Bunny was set free in her airy, spacious surroundings, she spent every waking moment trying to dig her way out. When she digs almost far enough to succeed, I move the cage a couple inches and she has to start over. The lawn’s starting to look like Swiss cheese, but it’s for her own good. A taste of freedom for Bunny means lunch for a hawk or neighborhood cat.

To try and alleviate Bunny’s don’t-fence-me-in angst, I go out in the evenings, scoop her up (despite her cranky, grunting protests), carry her around the yard, show her the trees and flowers, scratch her behind the ears and give her an earful of precious babytalk. You see, despite her high-maintenance nature, I adore that little fluffball. Yet when I hold her up to search for any indication that the feeling’s mutual, she turns her head slightly to peer down at me, and the expression in her eyes is unmistakable: Oh, how I loathe you.

Ah, the pain of unrequited love.

Bunny, Bunny, Bunny. I give you the best of everything. I grow parsley in the garden just for you. I buy you organic carrots, cute little toys and gourmet rabbit chow laced with dried bananas and sunflower seeds. I spend hours cuddling you and cradling you on the patio while my cats glower in jealous disgust, and I’m repaid with apathy at best and revulsion at worst. If I wanted a relationship like this, I’d get married again! At least I wouldn’t get peed on!

What to do, what to do. Maybe she needs a pet of her own? A nice little white mouse or a hamster? A bigger cage? Some bunny Prozac? What is the answer?

I consulted our local bunny pusher, Sarah, the one who got me into this dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Sarah told me that the likely reason for Bunny’s cantankerous demeanor is that she probably wants to make more bunnies. Desperately. She doesn’t hate you, she’s horny.

OK, I’ve accommodated every single one of Bunny’s needs, but I’m not going there.

Get another bunny, said Sarah. Just get a neutered male and they can go at it all day, you won’t have a yard full of bunnies, and everyone will be happy.

Let me get this straight. The answer to my bunny troubles is to get another bunny? And I’ll bet Sarah, conveniently, can hook me right up. See why I call her the bunny pusher?

 

Part II

Enter ye not the Bunny’s lair, for ye are tasty medium rare

June 2005

What was supposed to happen: I’d bring home a new bunny to keep Bunny company, they’d frolic and play in her Cadillac-sized pen in the back yard under the shade trees, little birds would light on my shoulder, and life would be magical and perfect, zippity-do-dah, zippity-yay.

What actually happened: something slightly less magical.

For those of you unfamiliar with Bunny from columns past, let me get everyone up to speed: (in my best Scottish burr) “A natural born killer, she is! The heart of a dragon beats inside the wee beast! She’ll swallow ye whole, and spit yer bones hither and yon! Don go nigh, lest ye have a sturdy Claymore at the ready!”

Translation: Bunny’s got a bit of a ‘tude.

After doing some homework on bunnies, I’d decided that loneliness was at the root of Bunny’s cantankerousness. Unlike cats and dogs, bunnies don’t really take any pleasure in human companionship. At best, humans are tolerated, and only with a glimmer of fear and loathing in those wide, unblinking eyes. However, according to several websites and pamphlets, bunnies also aren’t too fond of having long-eared strangers invade their space either. Introducing a new bunny could be a lengthy and laborious process. No problem. I’ll do whatever it takes. Nothing’s too good for Bunny.

But first, I needed a victim. Er… playmate.

My friend Sarah, who gave me Bunny, is a rabbit breeder and had the perfect candidate. Sugar was a little too old for breeding anymore, was very docile and sweet, and just needed a nice little retirement home. Sarah brought her over, and we set Sugar’s cage next to Bunny’s so they could get acquainted. Bunny was deliriously happy, sniffing at Sugar in excitement through the wire, running in circles and leaping in the air. Sugar was somewhat less thrilled and hid in the corner, watching this ridiculous, rambunctious display from a distance.

In a few days, I moved Sugar’s cage inside Bunny’s to get her used to a newcomer in her space. Once again, Bunny was giddy with delight. This was going to be a piece of cake. (Carrot cake, of course.)

After a week or so, the next step was my empty bathtub. I put both bunnies inside and waited for them to nuzzle and groom each other, and cuddle quietly together, their little pink noses bouncing up and down in perfect harmony. They crouched at opposite ends of the tub, gazes fixed, approached each other cautiously and rubbed noses. The following explosion of activity could only be described as a cross between a cockfight and a gay porn movie.

This prompted a frantic call to Sarah: “First off, are we sure Bunny is a girl?” Sarah said yes. At that very moment, Bunny was having her way with Sugar. At the wrong end. Vigorously. “She’s going to hump her to death,” I said frantically. Sarah said they were only trying to establish dominance, to just keep them from hurting each other, and to break it up if fur starts flying.

Fur was flying by the time I hung up. Sugar had decided that being the humper was preferable to being the humpee. Unfortunately, Bunny saw it the same way. Mayhem ensued. Bunny put a sharper point on who was the Alpha Bunny by humping Sugar’s head. “Breaking it up,” as Sarah called it, was as like thrusting my hand inside a blender. Blood was everywhere. Mine.

Sarah said to just keep trying, but every confrontation was worse than the last. If anything, they merely became more practiced at mortal combat. Last weekend, I decided to give it one more go. I put a playpen out on the lawn, in neutral territory, and set the bunnies inside. They skipped right past the S&M lesbian exercises and went straight into battle. Within 30 seconds, Bunny’s nose was torn and Sugar was missing a toe. That was it. For everyone’s safety, Sugar had to go back to Sarah’s.

So, Bunny is back in solitary confinement, where she belongs, as dour and miserable as ever. But at least I can stop blaming myself. It’s not like I didn’t try. And, I haven’t completely given up on finding Bunny a playmate. I just need to find her a more suitable companion, like a wolverine or a rabid Chihuahua.