I don’t even know how to start this post.
It’s a love story. Once upon a time I was looking at the local shelter’s website, and I found a picture of a black bunny with terrified eyes. The shelter had saddled him with the ridiculously unimaginative moniker “Shadow.” I told my best friend, the Angry Ginger, that I had found my bunny and we were going to get him. She called shotgun.
This bunny had lived with a family but they grew tired of him and gave him up. He was frightened, cranky, growly, and because of reasons, was classified as a rabbit of indeterminate gender unless the vet preformed exploratory surgery to determine sex.
No surgery necessary, we said. We didn’t care. He was ours and we loved him as-is. All of that was just crazy talk.
Sir Reginald Bunnington III, of the Cottontail Bunningtons, was simply called Thug Bunny because he was a tough guy from the streets, yo. He’d cut you without a second thought. He’d shank your mama.
He hated human contact. He had utter disdain for others. He was bunny box trained and lived, uncaged, in the living room. He never left that patch of carpet for any reason. He was always there, throwing gang signs, eating apples, and deigning to breathe the same air as those lesser humans. He ate our baseboards, our phone chargers, and our carpet.
I loved him with my whole soul.
Eventually he let us pet him. He’d sit by my feet, a warm bunny on a cold night, and he was just always there. Now he won’t be there, and I don’t know what to do.
We love you, Thugs. My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.