Home. Owner.

My mother and I were in San Diego, walking through a connected series of uber-development shopping center parking lots, when she suddenly stopped short.

“Now THIS,” she said definitively, pointing to an overturned shopping cart lying, ignored, in the corner of a lot, “Is a NICE house.”

“Ummm-hmmm,” I agreed, eying it appraisingly. “I don’t know why no one has moved in. Could it be the neighborhood?"

We lifted our eyes and surveyed the surrounding area. Not a lot of other homes, but that didn’t seem to stop the fellow living on the front yard of Wendy’s, near our hotel. Perhaps the lack of “green space” was causing this deplorable waste of housing?

It was food for thought, and we considered it as we moved along our way. Now that we’d noticed the saturated real estate market in this parking lot, we couldn’t help but notice the additional homes that were strewn, discarded, all about. Dismayed by the waste, I briefly entertained the notion of bringing a new – or second – home to the man living near our hotel, but was forced to dismiss the idea. He had so carefully packed his current house (a standard, silver-plated grocery-type model) with his belongings, maximizing all available space, and – based on the décor that he updated on a daily basis – I suspected that he was quite proud of his home.

There were many advantages to his existing residence. It was portable – far more portable than my home, to be sure – and it limited the amount of “clutter” that the man could accrue. This, in a way, I envied quite a lot. Sure, it would be tricky to cook in his place, and he did not have any running water – or even any water at all – but these were minor inconveniences when compared to the biggest advantage: His home offered him complete independence from societal rules. The smaller details (food, water, toilet, and roof) were provided at night by Wendy’s and during the day by Denny’s. With two fine names like that to provide for one, why sweat the small stuff?

The man was polite to us, nodding when we passed, but it was clear that we were of little importance. His world was encapsulated, like the contents of his cart. He had his recorder, which he played for an audience that we could not see, and his knife and stick, which he used together, literally whittling the time away. On occasions, we spotted him conversing with a being not visible to us, gesturing animatedly. At these times, his enthusiasm seemed to grow large enough to provide for his invisible conversation partner, this “other” that proved so much more interesting than anything that we – the “real world” - had ever offered.

I pondered this, and still do. Which of us – I wonder – is the smarter? Who is closer to the state of “truly living?” Is it me, with my own “invisible partners” – my cages and rules? The home, the prescribed “start’ and “stop” times to my day, my participation in the en masse traffic surges to and fro a “job” created by someone else, the “ways” of dress, of speech, of etiquette? Am I truly living? Have I found the secret?

I suspect not. On the other hand, I know that the solution that this man’s life offers is not the answer that I seek. What my personal answer is, I don’t know. I do know that the shiny metal or bright red plastic homes do not – for me – hold the same allure that they do for people like our San Diego acquaintance. Now, the nice double-decker green plastic model, on the other hand, inspired a moment of consideration….. Until my mother, sagely, reminded me of the difficulty of resale in such a flooded market.

I conceded, reluctantly. She was right. With one last backward glance, I continued with her across the asphalt.

The Babies

It is a universally acknowledged truth that baby bunnies rank in the top 5 of any "Cutest Things Ever" list. Imagine the mental and therapeutic benefits that I am reaping, then, with my constant exposure to two little 7-week-old-now-9-week-old bunnies: my foster charges. (Unfortunately for the babies, this is far too young for them to have been separated from their rabbit mother. We are "working through some things" as a result.)


I only wish that I would have taken the time to document the Little Delights when they first entered my home. Since that time, they have at least doubled in size. Still, they are so delightful that I cannot resist sharing them.


Adorable, no? This is actually the "Don't eat me you bizarre tormenter" face, times two.




Did you know?
Did you know that the brown baby bunny on the right was not always a lop? That's right. It is only recently that the lopness revealed itself. For more information, look it up online.

And now, a special treat. I have persuaded (bribed with apples) the bunnies to answer a couple of guest questions, since it is such a special treat to have the baby perspective available to us.


Q: Babies, why doesn't my rabbit like to be held? I really want to pet and play with her more, but she gets upset every time I pick her up.

Gray Baby: Fool! Do you think we don't know that you're a rabbit eater? Your freakishly large limbs and lack of ears give you away immediately! Stay away! Don't touch us!


Q: Hi baby bunnies. Is there any special treat that I can give my rabbit that won't upset his stomach but that he'll like as much as bananas?

Brown Baby: Aha! Trying to find out what rabbits can't resist, so you can add POISON TO IT AND KILL US!!! You just want to eat us!!!!! RUN!!! RUN GRAY!!!!

I am now going to end the question and answer session, because it is clear that the babies require a bit more socialization. To that end, please notify me immediately if you have any desire to pet and/or play with two adorable babies.

To Boldly Go

It is Monday morning, and I am standing in my living room gazing upon the front of my sweatpants, which have just been liberally doused with rabbit urine. The offending substance had been applied in a graceful, arcing stream, easily passing through the wire bars of the cage to soak my legs – and the carpet. The dampness of said carpet, which I had been regarding with a bit of confusion (wondering how I had become so sloppy with the water dish), was now being regarded with intense suspicion.

Piccard. That bastard.

Piccard, the object of my newfound disgust, was gleefully digging in his freshly filled litter box. It appeared, in fact, that the appearance of the clean litter box had actually inspired the arcing pee of joy. Not to be left out, Number One joined him in the box, then hopped out of the box to the shelf, where he pushed as much hay as possible through the bars unto the carpet.

Very uncool. My mind appraised the situation, quickly simplifying it to the basest level:
New condo + unneutered young male foster rabbits = Destruction. Dead carpet. Weeks of cleaning ahead.

In retaliation, I reached into the cage and grabbed Piccard. He struggled, squirming to escape.

“Resistance,” I told him, “is futile.” I spent a few moments savoring the apt use of that particular line before returning my attention to the black and white bunny in my hands. He had assumed the posture most popular with rabbits who find themselves unable to escape the human grasp: Head bobbing back and forth unsteadily, eyes slightly narrowed, legs extending stiffly in front of him, face radiating “I know you’re going to eat me….” I felt no sympathy. My carpet was clearly going to require extensive cleaning after his departure, and for that I deserved to be allowed to tickle his belly. This I did, with relish.

Piccard and Number One have lived with me for slightly over a week, and that – in my opinion – is time enough. As they settled in, recovering from their trauma, they grew more and more comfortable. TOO comfortable. With their immediate needs of safety, food, and shelter met, their attention turned to other things. Testosterone-inspired things. It is time for the boys to boldly go where they have never gone before (and to return to their cages not quite so bold...)

This week, I will turn Piccard and Number One over the shelter, where they will be “fixed” and be made available for adoption. They are – really – lovely young rabbits with great personalities. I will be happy to see them find a forever home.

In the meantime, I have a younger duo that needs attention. The Babies, as I’ve taken to calling them, are only 8 weeks old – far too young for the shelter experience. They will continue to live with me for at least another month.

This experience of fostering these rabbits – of forming and breaking attachments – is therapeutic for me, I know. It is my nature to believe that I must do all, must save all, must nurture all. All, that is, except my self. As one might imagine, this tends to detrimentally affect my self’s well being. Accepting that a creature may actually be better off in a home that is NOT mine is difficult for me to acknowledge. The truth – however – is that I am but one person, am unavoidably limited, and that I CANNOT save them all.

Gazing down at Piccard and Number One, I feel a wave of gratitude for the urinary message. The demonstration certainly makes it easier to accept the need for the next phase in the boys’ journey. My mind shifts, accelerating into the future – into the time of carpet scrubbing and treating – and the gratitude vanishes in a puff, leaving behind a residue of affection, and of hope for the future – for all of us.

Sunday Night Blues

Lately I have been giving an extraordinary amount of thought to the reasons behind my current writer's block. This thought may - in fact - be another method of avoiding the writing itself. There are a couple of theories that I'm leaning toward, but I don't know that I'm ready to share them all with whoever might happen upon this blog. And - since I AM the writer (pathetic as it may be for me to claim that moniker) - I can choose to share - or NOT share - whatever I please.

Having made that clear, I shall now switch subjects entirely. (Mood swing. Been having those a lot.)

Fact: Apples are tasty.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples during the fall season is a lovely, lovely perk.
Fact: Having an unlimited supply of apples with a limited shelf life puts pressure on one to utilize apples at an alarming rate.
Fact: Copious amounts of baked goods - no matter how many healthy apples they contain - do nothing good for one's waistline.

[Interruption. Phone makes noise at me. Is friend Jeff, texting. Wants to chat. Agree, provided he is certain we can keep call to actual allotted time - NOT normal time, which we routinely mutually agree will be five - ten minutes, but inevitably ends up being 1 1/2 - 2 hours.]

Jeff called. He described his recent (insane) dreams to me. Mind warp.

Throat is irritating me. Forced to make tea in order to continue conversation.

Now it is late. It would clearly be irresponsible to attempt to write now. I obviously will have to sleep instead.

Tomorrow, I shall actually write. Really. No doubt about it.