Requiem for a Rabbit

I heard someone speak on the radio the other day about “ambiguous” or “vicarious” loss, a genuine feeling of loss over something either undefined or that seems not to merit serious feelings of loss, but that nonetheless induces it.


I understand it well.


From time to time I posted here about a rabbit who had semi-adopted me, and vice versa. A cottontail with a damaged back leg, and we had a relationship for about two years. Now I fear she’s gone for good, and I miss more than cold reason says I should.


Cue the “Love Story” music and scenes.


We first “met” one snowy January morning when she showed up at the back door, sorting through the snow to find bits of old birdseed I had tossed out, food our lovebird didn’t want. Most noticeably, she left spots of bright blood on the cold concrete of the back stoop. I began watching for her, and she began coming back on a semi-regular basis, most mornings. I gave her the inelegant name of “Flatfoot,” because that back leg was flat, as though she had caught it under something. She made do with it -- what other choice did she have? -- but it obviously pained her, she rarely put weight on it and often licked at it.


As winter melted into spring she kept coming, and I began sitting outside when I saw her, tossing out seed for her. Somehow, we mutually discovered that she really liked Ritz crackers, and I would toss one or two of those to her. I began holding them out to her and she eventually got to the point she would s-t-r-e-t-c-h out her neck and snatch the cracker, then settle a few feet away to eat it. I changed her name to “Ritzy” at first, which grew into “Fritzy” for some reason. One time I decided our relationship should move to the next level, so I held out my flat hand with birdseed on it. She slowly came up and began eating the seed out of my hand, but got confused as to where the seed ended and where my flesh began, and incidentally nipped me, hard enough to draw blood. I yelped and pulled back my hand, she ran for cover. But the next day we were back to our old routine.


And so it went. Many mornings she was waiting outside when I got up or would run up to me when I walked out, while any other rabbits bolted for the bushes. Sometimes, when I sat with my laptop on the back deck, I would see her make her careful route around the edge of the yard, against the fence, eventually ending up at the front porch. I suspected she was a “she” because from time-to-time she seemed to have enlarged teats, as though nursing babies. Sometimes she would pay me the ultimate rabbit complement of stretching out and relaxing not far from me, something rabbits only do when they are at ease.



The leg seemed to get better for a while, then worse. She put weight on it only when she had to, and sometimes used it to scratch her ear, but would always lick at it. The claws kept growing longer and at odd angles. But she adapted.


Two years this lasted, with a few absences of one or two days, but she always returned.


That back leg always bothered me, and I wished there were something I could do to help her. I thought about a wildlife rescue, but doubted they would be seriously interested in a cottontail. They would, at most, euthanize her, and that didn’t seem right. She always seemed so lively and uncomplaining about the leg, and it seemed wrong for me or anyone else to decide otherwise. I considered trying to catch her myself and putting her in a cage, but read too many stories of wild rabbits beating themselves to death against the wire, trying to escape. Perhaps I could have convinced a vet to do some sort of surgery on the leg, but I doubted I could afford it, even if it were feasible.


So I did nothing, which was probably the proper course.


The last time I saw her was about six weeks ago. I looked out my front window and saw a rustling in the hostas, then she kind of raised up, with a couple nearly-grown babies hanging on her. She licked them, then limped off. The next morning I came across her lying in some hostas in the backyard, and she seemed a little off somehow, even though she moved on.


But something told me that was the last time I’d see her.


It was.


Sometimes now I see young rabbits in the yard, no doubt at least a couple had been hers. One seemed to hang around a bit, and I tossed it a Ritz, which it ignored. Would have been nice if the rabbit had run after it, a sort of passing the baton to the next generation, but it didn’t happen.


I sometimes wonder how her life ended, though I don’t like to ponder it. Rabbits run many risks, and three-legged ones even more. I hope her ending was sudden. I don’t know what or if rabbits have memories or thoughts, but I am glad she no longer has to endure the pain of that bad leg, even if I have to endure the pain of a lost friend. Because that’s what she was, and I really do hope that, somehow on a rabbit-level, she considered me the same. We had a real relationship that meant much to me.


Goodbye, Fritzy. I truly miss you. My mornings are emptier now. Thanks for two years of trust and sharing.