Silly Rabbit, Grief Sucks

Somebody's Crazy About You Anyway

I’m visiting my friend. I sit on the floor, cross-legged—or at least as criss-cross applesauce as I can. The days are finally growing longer, and this afternoon is warm enough for shirt sleeves. I’ve even brought a friendship offering of fresh dandelions to make up for my recent lack of attention. With so much welcome sunshine, you’d think I’d be overflowing with gratitude and praise.

But my fingers fidget the way they do when I’m tense, and everything I say comes out sideways or self-pitying. Who am I now that my husband is gone? Won’t people get tired of hearing me talk about missing him? Why can’t I accept the love and compassion they say is only a prayer away? I’m discomfited, disorganized, dis-everything.

I’m disappointed that I don’t want to join the widow’s group. Disgruntled at waiting on hold for one-hundred-twenty freakin’ minutes to settle my late husband’s affairs. Distressed to admit that God feels so far away. I hold out my dandelion token of friendship and it’s yanked out of my hand, as if my friend is starving. She doesn’t give advice, and she always listens. But she chews and smacks her food like a rabbit.

Yep. When things get this bad, I end up talking to the bunny.

She’s a butterscotch-y and white lop-eared rabbit, nearly ten years old now. She hopped into our yard early one morning as my late husband stood outside—probably smoking after the doctors said it would kill him. Still in robe and slippers, he grabbed his fishing net and chased her down the street, thinking the rabbit had escaped from the neighbors.

The neighbors’ bun was just fine. Congratulations, the humane society said. You now own a pet rabbit. Over the years, my husband cared for the little beast, building larger and more luxurious enclosures for her. He erected a fortified greenhouse, which we liked to call the Playboy Mansion. Bun-Bun, as he named her, would crawl onto his chest and nap. She loved him.

She hated me, and bit me more times than I could count, drawing blood if she was in an especially foul mood. She was daddy’s girl, all right. Who knows what kinds of private info they shared? He loved to feed her too many carrots and against my wishes, often let her roam the backyard, just because I said she should stay in her pen.

Now she stays in her pen twenty-four-seven.

I’ve forced myself to enter her domain, risking bunny bites to my kneecaps. Territorial little sucker. But slowly, she’s letting down her guard. Now she looks forward to her food, of course, but also to my twice-a-day visits. If you’ve never seen a domestic rabbit put her head down for pets or purr by buzzing her back teeth, well, you’ve missed something. I’ve had trouble finding the right words to tell her that he’s gone.

These days she likes me—or at least tolerates me. As long as I don’t try to pick her up, she doesn’t bite anymore. But something has changed. Instead of becoming another chore to clean up after, Bun-Bun has become my confidant.

I tell her stuff I wouldn’t dare say out loud, the things your mind says are nuts but your heart agonizes over anyway. I complain that at my age there are twice as many single women as men, that even if I wanted to look for companionship (I don’t), it would only leave me more alone than ever. I whisper about places where I feel especially vulnerable—my poor, deformed body, my struggle with post-polio syndrome pain and fatigue, the baggage that follows me everywhere.

Bun-Bun stops eating. She gazes at me with soft brown eyes, head down to demand more pets. The more I stroke her nose, the closer she comes, until she rests alongside my leg.

Her unspoken approval gives me the courage to go on. “Have I wasted my life?” By this time, I could be speaking to God or to the air. Years ago, I was ready to walk away from my husband, but another friend told me, “He’s crazy about you,” and I stayed. Could the same be true of the God I keep reaching for?

Bun Bun’s velvety tongue begins to lick my wrist, as if she acknowledges how tough life can be. I try to imagine how she survived out there before she came to us, with dogs and cats and raccoons and the local great barred owl looking for their next meal. She had to be fast, and she had to be smart and she had to take chances that someone would love her.

I tell her I’m definitely not fast and by the way my hips are screaming with pain from sitting cross-legged. I used to think I was smart, but now I don’t know about that either. I shift my weight and Bun-Bun scratches an itch.

But am I willing to take chances?

Definitely not interested in finding new love, not today, maybe not ever. But am I willing to open up the deep end of my heart to the One who loves? Willing to make new friends and accept the comfort of friends I’ve known forever?

The moment you stop petting her, Bun-Bun’s nose starts to twitch. She goes back to munching dandelions— as she chews, they disappear inch by inch. But although bunnies don’t have much to say, her message is clear.

We’re all walking blindly through our joys and our calamities, balancing on the narrow beam of our lives. When we lose our footing—from disease or death or broken hearts—we fidget and fret and forget who’s been behind us all along, to make sure we don’t fall.

I stand up, slowly, stiffly, feeling every single one of my advancing years. The One who is love never wavers in affection for you and me, but sometimes we pay too much attention to the road instead of the God who’s crazy about us. As I exit the pen, I blow Bun-Bun a kiss and promise to love her forever. She’s just a silly rabbit, but to a grief girl like me, she means everything

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