I just finished a great book by freelance writer and author Bob Tarte. “Enslaved by Ducks” documents Tarte’s adventurous journey into pet ownership, which winds up in his pets owning him. He was a city dude. Footloose and fancy-free. No pets. Then he got married and moved to the country. And what seminal event caused him to begin down this astonishingly slippery slope? Binky the bunny.
My downfall began similarly with Blackberry, the bunny of my co-worker’s daughter. You see, I once was Queen of my Universe…Mistress of all I surveyed. My apartment was my personal queendom and my sanctuary. I lived my life beholden to no one and I liked it. Then one day, one I would look back upon as dark and ominous although I had no idea at the time, somehow, through some kind of Jedi mind trick on my co-worker’s part combined with my own naiveté, she convinced me that a bunny would be a wonderful addition to my household.
That was the day my life changed…forever.
I have this half-baked theory about people generally being comfortable with animals or comfortable with babies. Since my siblings are sooooooo much older than I, I did a lot of free babysitting of my nieces and nephews growing up. Holding a newborn, changing dirty diapers, getting thrown-up or peed upon are all par for the course as far as I am concerned. But picking up and holding an animal? How does one do that? Correction: how does one do that without getting bitten? Or without hurting the animal. At least babies wear diapers and they don’t have teeth…the worst they could do to you is try to “gum” you to death. They won’t break skin and make you bleed. They won’t scratch you and leave huge welts on your tender skin.
Anyway, if it is not already obvious, I am much more comfortable around babies than animals, because I did not really grow up amongst animals (a dog I was too young to take care of and fish when I was older do not really count). And as mentioned above, I, much like the intrepid author, “fell into” pet ownership…with a bunny.
It always starts with the bunny. Cherchez le lapin.
A cute, adorable, furry, continuously pooping, ever digging and chewer-without-ceasing-of-everything-you-do-not-want-him-to-chew bunny. What those people (and by those people I mean the ones that encourage the unsuspecting to become bunny owners) fail to tell you is that bunnies are more like Bugs Bunny…sly, naughty and destructive.
Even in my novice fog, I knew it was important to set the tone early. I am the owner. I’m the human. I’m in charge. One way bunnies “mark” their territory is by rubbing their chins on things (males also spray, which is that funny scent you smell when you enter my apartment). Apparently there is some kind of gland there that leaves a scent, declaring: “Property of Blackberry the Bunny.” So what do I do? In order to establish my dominance in this relationship, I rub my gland-less chin on him, look deeply into his eyes and seriously and authoritatively intone, “I am the alpha bunny. I am the alpha bunny. I AM the alpha bunny!”
This has made as much difference as a lone raindrop in the Pacific, which is to say none. Blackberry still has run of the apartment, and if I do not pay attention he will: chew electrical cords down to the copper wire, hop onto my dining room table and eat whatever is on there or knock it off the table (one particularly bad incident starred a vase of flowers and some stagnant water I kept forgetting to freshen), or will dig and chew his way through my carpet or through the couch. When I use the preposition “through” I mean it literally. Blackberry can run in one end of my couch and out the other due to his toothy biting and incomparable scratching.
All this being said (as well as being true), I cannot imagine my life without the little bugger. I love him. Even though when he deigns to let me pet and quasi-cuddle him on the floor (he hates to be picked up and will start kicking and wiggling to leave the warm comfort of my hug), he will ruin the almost-tender moment by running away into a corner and grooming himself. I try to console myself that he just has OCD, but he always seems to suspiciously be licking only the places where I touched him. As if I had cooties or something. Very disheartening.
This is the mystery of pet ownership. Even when the animal shows little or no affection (and sometimes aggression…I’m only sticking my hand in your precious cage to get your bowl out to feed you. So stop growling and charging and pawing me with those wicked nails that I’ve let grow overlong because I am too scared of cutting them and hurting you and because you won’t sit still long enough for me to cut them anyway…oops, sorry, just a tiny tangential rant).
What was I saying? Something about the joys of pet ownership?
Seriously, though, even when the animal shows little or no affection for you, the provider of food, shelter and unrequited love, there is some (one-way) bond there. Those weird quirks like running away from you become endearing. The chewed up books on the bookcase are marks of affection. I think owning a pet does something mushy to your brain. It’s the only way I can explain an intelligent, independent individual who did not want to be a pet owner in the first place (me, in case it was not already obvious), continuing to make loving overtures to an arrogant, naughty, disdainful, rebuffing bunny.
Wanna snuggle, Blackberry?
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