MOHRS
By Terry Clevenger
Rabbits have always been my wife’s thing, and although I help with their maintenance, and certainly feel bad when we lose one, I’ve never considered myself an integral part of their care.
However, they say there’s an exception to everything, and Tiffy turned out to be that one exception.
My wife had warned me for over a year that, with Tiffy’s ecuniculi, we should be prepared to see her go downhill rather quickly. I managed to evade reality until after Kim got back from a trip to see her folks this past January. There had been no signs whatsoever that Tiffy was ailing, but shortly after Kim’s return, she lost the use of her back legs. The sight of her trying to maneuver around with just her front legs was both alarming for us, but also encouraging, as Tiffy seemed to be unaware of her handicap, and gallantly tried to live a normal life.
However, I once again had to face reality when Kim told me that, with me going back to school after Christmas break, and with her at work all day, there would no longer be anyone around to provide the increased care Tiffy was requiring, and the humane thing would be to put her down.
Well, the day came to take her to the vet for the procedure. I sat on the bed with Tiff and Kim, and confessed my great reluctance to go through with it. My argument to Kim was I still saw a lot of spirit and life left in our little white mass of fur, and it just didn’t seem the right thing to do, at that point, anyway. Kim emphasized that without someone available during the day to dry her off from wetting herself, and getting her fresh food and exercising her legs, it just wasn’t good to let her go all day. I (fairly immediately, acting mainly out of emotion and not logic) piped up that I would come home from school every day and take care of her.
School consisted of an internship at a nearby community college, and my schedule there was such that I could plan a slightly long lunch period to dash home, get Tiffy re-situated and fed, and run back. This I did for the next three or four months. It was terrible, grueling, sacrificial work (?), especially when I had to see that little head pop up from her nesting area when I came in her room, and start moving around rather excitedly, knowing some extreme TLC was at hand. I also really hated having to pick her up and snuggle with her (??), petting her and, later, having to endure the misery of her “bunny kisses”; she knew what we were doing for her, and she generously let her appreciation be known!
Over those months Kim and I devised all sorts of little inventions to help Tiffy’s condition. One contraption—and that’s indeed what they were—were variations on the idea of a chariot-like device that she could get into and, with the use of her front paws, maneuver herself around our den, with a rear wheel assembly taking the place of her useless legs. Although rather humorous for us, it never really worked that well for her, and we eventually abandoned this little experiment (however, we owe great gratitude to “Bob” for his tireless engineering and tinkering with this idea!).
Kim also became quite talented at figuring out ways to prop Tiffy up against small blankets and pillowcases, so she had support against her back to be able to eat and drink, plus enjoy her surroundings. Although her different configurations cannot be detailed here (see separate story), it was important to give her the ability to have access to food.
Caring for Tiffy during this time was never a chore or burden. Her spirit and spunk was such that Kim and I seemed to dote heavily on her, something the other rabbits did not fail to notice! We seemed to compete for who would hold her in the evening while we watched TV, and, since somebody had to clean up the bunny rooms (Kim), I usually won that honor.
Besides her tremendous spirit, something else that was very evident about Tiff was her incredible appetite. Anytime we brought her food, she would devour it with the zeal of someone lost in the desert for a week! We could never figure out where she was putting it, as she remained rather thin. However, Kim revealed that it was the disease that was eating up the calories, only giving the illusion of our heroic bunny holding off its terminal effects.
I remember spending a very fun Sunday afternoon parked in front of the television, with Tiffy parked contentedly in my lap, waking every several minutes, just long enough to nibble on some veggies or wrap a front paw around my thumb and lick my hand at some length. The phrase “wrapped around her finger (paw)” was never better illustrated!
A few days later I had to go out of town for an overnight trip. When I got back in the evening, Kim reported that Tiffy had not eaten for 24 hours or so, and she was quite worried about her. Indeed, when I knelt down on the floor to pet her and love on her, she did not respond as usual. Nor would she give in to my attempts to feed her.
Kim spent a restless night with Tiffy, trying to get her to eat something, anything, and watching to see that her bathroom habits were continuing. The next morning she brought Tiff in to our bed, waking me with the announcement we needed to get her in to the vet. Our ailing bunny lay next to me while Kim tended to the other rabbits, and then headed to take a shower, after which we would take her in. Tiff seemed to need to hold her head up, almost like she needed air. I got up and was holding her upright to help her breathe better, but something told me she wasn’t right. I urged Kim to get dressed, as we didn’t have time for her shower—we needed to leave NOW! I dashed out to the car, and just as I opened up the driver’s door I could feel Tiffy go limp. Kim came up and took her so I could drive. I backed out of the driveway, and as I shoved the car in first and took off down the street, looked over at her in Kimmie’s arms; “She’s gone,” I told my wife. Kim tried to keep Tiff alive by talking to her, but she just slumped in Kim’s arms. We decided to make the trip anyway, just in case there was still a heartbeat. We were in the vet’s office a few minutes later, and he put a stethoscope on Tiffy’s chest. A few minutes later he took the tips out of his ears and shook his head at us, then kindly left us alone for our goodbyes.
Kim and I are glad she went the way she did—on her terms, Kim likes to say—quick and painless. We did not relish the prospect of taking her in, seemingly healthy and alert, and putting her to sleep. I’m also extremely glad I was so adamant about not having her euthanized early on. “What if” would always have been a haunting thought for me. I’ve never had such an experience with one of our bunnies. I hope, in some ways, I never have another. But this was a very, very special few months with “just an animal”.
Tiffy was six years old or so when she died. I know in rabbit years that’s “retirement age”, but it just seems so short. Tiffy never was very big or fat; she always had the look of a young bunny. I think that’s what made her, even in advanced years and with her illness, always look so cute. She was just a big fluff of fur; you could hardly tell if you were looking at her head or rear. And then after her legs gave out, she really laid it on thick with the bunny kisses as we gave her all the special care we could. Her incredible spunk her last few months was the icing on the cake for all the reasons we came to love her so much.