Summer Animals

My dog keeps sniffing at a pile of grass trimmings and leaves left over from when the lawn crew blasted through. He paws at it, sticks his nose down deep, snuffling. I do not want him snuffling because he has had a persistent gagging cough the last few weeks brought on by what I do not know. Allergies, old age, terrible sounding possibilities like tumors, pulmonary issues, chronic things that befall older dogs.

I assume it is rabbit poop he is after when he doesn’t heed my “Ah-a!” shouts and snapping fingers. Despite the rain, I step out of the house, my feet sink into the damp grass and dirt. I nudge him away with my knee and he is off to sniff other things while not under my watch. I peer down into the grassy pile, ready to cover up the poop, but instead, I see the roundness of something brown and furry. It is so small, I assume it is a mouse, but upon closer inspection, I see tiny paws, long ears, little closed eyes—it’s a baby rabbit. The next day, I find two more, in the same spot, sitting upright, breathing so softly, their eyes barely open. I go online to find out what I should do. A blogger is adamant that if another adult rabbit is around, do not move the bunnies or interfere. It is so hot outside, I worry. That night, I see the adult rabbit is back, near where their nest is and I feel hopeful.

I have always had an affinity for rabbits. I was born in the year of the rabbit. When I was very small, my favorite story was Peter Rabbit, I memorized it before I could read, watching and listening to my grandmother as she moved her finger over the page, her fingernail scraping under the words like a needle on a record conjuring this amazing tale. I pleaded with her to read it to me over and over. Even before that, my mom said I would freak her out by telling her elaborate stories about my rabbit family, what we used to eat, how we lived.

We have had rabbits in our backyard off and on the last couple of years. They live under the deck, squeeze through a gap in the rotting wood and the flimsy wire fencing.  Not “ours” exactly, since it is a rental. Not “ours” at all since it is just me. Sometimes, when I slip and say “ours,” I pretend I mean me and the dog, but in my heart, I know I mean me and Daryl. “Ours,” “We,” “Us,” are very hard words to let go of when they no longer serve a purpose.

I first noticed a rabbit that last September, when Daryl was very sick. One night, I flipped the back-porch light on and there it was, small, brown, blending in with the burnt grass and the wood fence. It froze when it saw us, the dog not noticing. At first, Daryl was amused by my nightly sightings, but, as my stress increased along with his endless nausea, weight loss and fatigue he became annoyed, so I stopped mentioning it. I don’t know what rabbits represent beyond fertility, but their presence during that endless month when nothing was getting better and Daryl was fading felt like a harbinger. I do know rabbits are rodents and have collapsible bones, because, when I was five, my childhood bunny, Sweetpea, jumped from our second-floor apartment by squeezing through the slats of the balcony. My mom had left the top of her cage open wanting her to feel more freedom, not realizing she could escape. I found her when I went outside to feed her, she was still alive, down below in the garden. Her back was broken and my mom had to take her into the vet to have her put to sleep.

The next morning, my neighbor texts me, “The bunnies didn’t make it :(” and I don’t want to believe her, but when I go outside, I see it is true. They lie next to each other, as if asleep, flies buzzing around them, landing on their soft backs. I immediately make a list of all the things I could have done to save them. I would have put up a barrier for protection from my dog, I could. have put them in a box, gave them water, called someone. I blame our lawn service who came earlier that week, swooping in like vigilantes with loud leaf blowers and aggressive push mowers. On their last visit, the dog’s Frisbee was gobbled up and spit out by the mower. They thoughtfully laid its mangled remains on the steps to the deck. It had survived two years of mowing. The truth is, my dog is too old and limp-y to run after the frisbee, but, occasionally I’d throw it and he would jog slowly after it and then give up and go back to his old dog wanderings. Seeing it nestled safely in the grass implied youth and activity. When I threw away its shredded remains, I thought of how Daryl and I would bring it with us to my parents’ lake house and watch him run into the water after it, or how he would zip after it and grab it and try to chew its corners into submission in the dog park next to our old apartment building.

I take my dog out at dusk and keep him close on his leash to avoid any disturbing of the bunnies remains. I see the adult rabbit at the far end of the yard, looking at us. Too old and clumsy for a real hunt, the most my dog musters is a bark and a few pounces forward and the rabbit hops to another corner of the yard. I question its parenting skills, wonder if it was even his or her bunnies, wonder if it is mourning, wonder if it blames me for what happened. The rabbit hops over to another section of the yard unfazed by the poetry of loss.