I killed my rabbit two months ago.
I have had one bunny for three years; her name is Lucky. She belonged to my older sister, but when she moved to Hawaii to teach, her (now ex) boyfriendtold her she couldn't bring the bunny. So I took her. We've had some rough times...I do not always get out every day, especially the first winter I had her, I was very pregnant and our back door was sealed shut and it was basically hazardous for me to try to squeeze out through the fence. But I did it! She got fat and happy over the summer...then when winter came again, I was concerned that I would forget to feed her and convinced our landlord to let us bring her inside. She spent a lovely winter living on our kitchen floor, basically little trained, and had her pick of veggies and attention from all of us. It was very nice.
We moved, and our new landlord is adament that no pets be inside. So outisde she goes. I rigged a little run for her with a puppy pen and her regular cage so she has lots of room on the grass, I move it to a different location every so often to prevent buildup of feces and whatnot and she has two "dens" for shade, wind cover, and security. Over last summer I was itching for something, I had baby fever bad. I wanted me a baby! We decided it would be better to wait til I was done with school, and instead a friend offered to give me another rabbit. He was about a year old, neutered, a beautiful black lop named CoCo. They adjusted pretty well to each other. I was happy!
Ironically, after December, I found out I was pregnant. Oops lol. Life continued...until, the last week of January, my morning sickness hit me full swing. I was miserable. I only moved from the couch to go the bathroom and puke. I missed a lot of school. I could not function. In the back of my mind I kept telling myself, gotta get out and get them water, gotta take care of the bunnies...but the thought would go as quickly as it came. I should have asked my husband for help. But I did not.
Finally I dragged myself out there, on Feb. 3rd, my husband's birthday. Coco had died. I burst out sobbing when I saw his body, I petted him for a while crying, hoping desperately that somehow I'd feel him start to move under my hand, that I hadn't been too late. But I was, and he was dead. Lucky was still there, huddled in her den, she was very thin.
Since CoCo's death I have been vigilant about getting Lucky food and water. Sometimes I go a day, and as it's been getting warmer I've been slipping again (not as bad though, because the water is not freezing so she has it available) but she is not gaining any weight back. I called the local vet today and felt like I was lying, I said she had lost weight over the winter and that I have been making sure she has food and water, but I didn't tell her about that one-week fatal screw-up. The guilt over CoCo is hanging over my head and heavy on my shoulders. "I forgot" is inadequate. Do I not care about my animals? Should I be an owner at all? I never told the friend about it...she got the rabbit from a girl who had raised him by hand as a 4H project and loved him dearly. I am completely and utterly ashamed of myself.
This is something that has a history with me. I have always loved animals, but I seem to lack the capacity to care for them. When I was around ten or eleven years old my father agreed to let us three younger kids get some pet mice. We each bought a pair. The employee did not sex them correctly...those six mice quickly multiplied. I can't remember the exact sequence of events...I think I tried to seperate the sexes but I lacked the equipment and the room, and I think I was actually very pleased with the idea of being a mouse breeder. Baby mice! What fun! Eventually I had all the mice in my bedroom in a large fishtank. I tried boards and wire and all sorts of things to keep those guys and gals seperated but they were PERSISTANT. At one point, the worst point, I had 33. Mamas were eating their babies because the crowding was so bad. Some of them started to die; I avoided cleaning the cage and didn't feed them consistently. Why? I couldn't tell you. I got distracted. "I forgot."
Finally my dad intervened (in my head, I am thinking now, THEN he intervened? Where was he at the beginning of this fiasco? Who was the adult here???) and we gave many of the mice back to the pet store. I was allowed to keep my two favorites (my sister and brother had lost interest in their pets way before that) and for some CRAZY REASON my dad said I could breed them ONE MORE TIME. Again. Where is the logic? Who was the adult? Wow. Anyway, I was of course thrilled, the terror and gruesomeness of the 33 forgotten. More mouse babies! Yay!
My female Cornflower had 12 babies. I loved those little babies! I had two cages now too, so the dad, Methuselah, was safely apart. I was energized and re-inspired and kept the cages clean and they were fat and happy. Then Cornflower got out of her cage, still don't know how, and I found her that afternoon dead in my parent's bedroom. I think she knew she was going to die and got away to do so quietly. So I had 12 orphaned two-week old mice. I tried desperately to save them. I spent hours grinding up dog food and putting it into powdered milk, feeding them with a syringe every few hours. It wasn't enough...they started to die, slowly, refused to eat what I had to offer them. Once six of them were left I couldn't take it anymore and asked my dad to drown them. This is one of the saddest memories I have of my childhood. After that though, I was a very responsible mouse owner with Methuselah and he lived a good two years longer and died peacefully of old age.
I had two goats for a while. Again, I often put off feeding them, but they did not suffer any illness. I had to get rid of them because they would escape their pen and eat my dad's fruit trees.
I had two other bunnies as a child. One, I cannot for the life of me remember how he died. I probably forgot to feed him and my parents didn't want to tell me it was my fault. I don't remember. The other, my sister left the cage open and my other sister's cat killed her.
I have had a host of kittens; to be fair, their deaths were not my fault. Most of them were hit by cars because my parents wouldn't let me keep them inside. I had a dog that I took good care of because my parents helped me, had to get rid of him though because he scared and bit my friend once.
When I have help, I don't do too badly. But I am a grown woman. I shouldn't need help and supervision with feeding an animal.
This is all in my mind today because yesterday my husband buried CoCo, and Lucky is still skin and bones. I couldn't even get myself to take care of his body. It just screams my failure at me, that an innocent and helpless animal paid for. He sat outide in a plastic bag (inside a cage so animals wouldn't get at him) but the ground was soft enough yesterday.
When I forget to do things, or get distracted from them, I can often quiet that accusing voice in my head telling me that I am lazy, I tell myself I have a disorder, that I am sure I have ADD. But CoCo died, and shame prevails.
For the record, if Lucky does not improve within a week (the vet gave me some tips to help her gain weight) I do plan on taking her in. I've got to move forward and make sure she is ok.
The worst part of this? Other than CoCo dying anyway...I still want animals. I still have that clamoring little girl saying "I WANT it!!!"
When will I get some common sense?
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