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.