The Boy

I am being punished.

The Boy Rabbit is refusing to speak to me.

This is not a new form of punishment. It’s happened before, many times. I am not – you see – permitted to leave him for any considerable length of time. If the length of my departure requires that I secure someone else to care for him, or – HEAVEN FORBID – that he be left with my parents, then I am punished for an EXTENDED period of time.

Last week, their uncle R stayed with them for 7 days while I was vacationing in San Diego. According to his report, they were well-behaved during this time. The Boy Bun – it seems – even allowed R to pet him. (This does not – frankly – bode well for me. It smacks of desperation, which I will pay for.)

Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, I surprised the pets with my return. As is customary, The Boy Bun was initially too relieved to disguise his pleasure at seeing me. Ears perky, he pressed up against the bars of his cage, watching me with bright, gleaming eyes. Unfortunately, this happy version of The Boy never lasts. By the time I woke from sleep a few hours later, his anger had set in.

I was greeted that morning with a grunt, after which The Boy Rabbit immediately dashed into his cardboard tube. As I dropped pellets into his dish, he peered at me from the end of the tube, his face ominous. It was only after I had moved away from his area that he came out, sniffing his pellet dish contemptuously and giving me “a look.” This I ignored.

An hour or so later, as I offered the bunnies their customary morning “good-bye treat,” he swatted my hand. This was a new development. I have – many, many times – been swatted at when delivering food or litter, or when adjusting items in his cage, but NEVER have I been swatted when I’ve had a treat in my hand. I was – I realized – in much more trouble than normal.

Since my return, I am watched constantly by a little brown rabbit with angry eyes. He glowers at me from a new favorite spot – in a basket at the far end of his pen, quite distanced from any hands that may attempt to touch him. My cheerful greetings are met with a disdainful turn of his rabbit back. When treats are offered, they are only accepted after an elaborate show that is meant – through the sniffing and hesitation – to imply that I am not to be trusted, and that I smell bad to boot.

He is an odd creature, my Boy Bun. I am – you see – the only one that he has ever adored (at least as long as I’ve had him.) I know this because there have been rare occasions, in the many years that we’ve lived together, in which he has let down this wall that he has built. He has snuggled his face into my neck, he has thrust his forehead into my hand, he has licked and kissed my arm as I pet him. I know that the anger that he feels when I leave him is based on the fear that he holds – every time – that I will not return. In these feelings he is, I think, like many people in this world. The difference is that he is so very open about it. He does not pretend that he is not angry when he clearly is, does not wait until a few weeks after my return to have a “fit” over me “moving his water bottle” or “leaving the roof of his cage open.” His anger – and the cause of it - is refreshingly honest.

“I want you with me,” it says, laying his emotions bare, “and if you don’t stay with me I will be angry.”

I can understand this, and – because I do – I can accept it. I am willing to spend extra time cajoling him back from his angry spot, am happy to give him the attention that he has missed in my absence. In a few days, after I’ve spent hours petting and playing with him, (yesterday’s bribe: Peter’s Hay Tumbler) we will once again snuggle happily together.

Until he finds out we’re moving.