Tag Archives: rabbits

Bin Laden, Barack & Bella the Bunny

I sat tonight in the emergency veterinary hospital waiting room with my eleven-year-old daughter.  We’d left home at 9pm after she noticed her pet rabbit, Bella,  lethargic and slumped in her cage.

While the triage personnel worked with Bella behind closed doors, I sat with my daughter, waiting for our name to be called.  We chatted for awhile with a man whose yellow lab, Sheba, had swallowed a lamb chop.  “Probably needs an endoscopy or surgery, but she’ll be just fine,” he said.  “And you?” he asked us.

Before we could answer, a message on my phone dinged an alert:  Osama bin Laden was dead.

“Wow,” I said, scrunching my nose.  “The New York Times and CNN report that Osama bin Laden’s been killed.”

“Did they say who did it?” asked Sheba’s owner as he paid his bill.

“Nope.  The president’s going to speak in a few minutes, though,” I said, scrolling through the update on my phone.

When the man left, the receptionist came into the lobby and turned on the t.v.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.  “My friend just called me.  She said the president’s going to make a speech.”  I looked at my daughter, whose wide blue eyes grew even larger.  I knew she didn’t know who Osama bin Laden was.  We’d never talked about him or his role in the September 11 attacks.  We’d discussed the events in terms that she and her brothers could relate to:  innocent people killed; families torn apart; sadness; tributes; rebuilding.

Still, I was curious.  I turned to her. “Do you know who Osama bin Laden was?” I asked.  She shook her head no, then looked toward the door leading to the veterinary clinic.  I knew she didn’t want a history lecture at that moment.  She wanted to know her bunny was okay…that Bella was coming home.

“He was in charge of September 11th,” I said.  “I’m not glad when anyone dies, but he told the world he was proud that he organized September 11th.”

She stared at me, then said, “Then why didn’t they get him right away?”

“He’s been hiding,” I said.  “It sounds like someone finally found him.”

The receptionist called out, “Bella’s family?  You can go back to room four now.”

We walked down the hallway and into a clean room.  Pictures of rabbits, turtles, and other small “exotics” (as they’re called) covered the walls.  I tried not to notice the two neatly handwritten cards taped to the cabinets, thanking the staff for their kindness and compassion at the end of their pets’ lives.

The veterinarian came into the room, bubbly and far too cheery for a Sunday night.  I figured her spunk was driven by one of three things:

1) too much caffeine

2) the intention to distract us from our anxiety over a sick animal, or, most likely

3) the intention to distract us from the oozing zit on her forehead, harshly highlighted by the flourescent lighting.

“I can see what you meant by Bella being kind of ‘slumpy’,” she said.  “Her temp is down and she’s showing signs of GI stasis (an emergency situation when a rabbit’s digestive system shuts down).  We’re warming her up with water bottles and giving her a little oxygen…”

My daughter’s eyes glistened as she listened. Good God, I thought.  Are we being prepared for another death of a pet?  We’ve lived through the passing of a dog, two gerbils, two guinea pigs, several lizards, countless fish…and now…possibly…the sweetest bunny in the world?

The vet bubbled on.  “What I’d suggest, if you’re okay with this, is keeping her here overnight so we can help get her G.I. tract moving.  Fluids, pain meds, stuff to make her insides slippery so she can get things going again.  Sound good to you two?”

My daughter looked at me and nodded.  The vet went out to get some papers for me to sign and “stabilize” Bella so we could say goodnight.

“Mom,” my daughter said, sniffling, “if they have to do anything like surgery to save her life, I don’t want to put her through it.  I don’t want her in any pain.”

“I hear you,” I said, hugging her.  “I think, if it all ended right now for Bella, she’s had a really great life, don’t you think?”


“Are you okay, ” I asked.

“Do you love her, Mom?”

“Yes,” I said.  “She’s the best pet I think we’ve ever had.  She’s wonderful.”

“Did you cry when Chloe [our black lab] died?”

“I did, but not until about a week later.  I think I was just in shock that she had to be put to sleep.  It hit me later than everyone else.”

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, just before a young, kind nurse came into the room and walked us through the papers.

“Initial here if you approve us to x-ray Bella.”

“Initial here if you understand the charges for medication, overnight hospitalization, antibiotics, food, skilled nursing care…”

“Initial here if you’d like us to employ a DNR…”

Now my eyes widened.

Do not resuscitate.  Wow.  Yup.  We’re at that point.

I gently explained to my daughter what a DNR directive was.  The nurse added softly that they ask anyone with a pet staying overnight to sign a DNR directive.  We agreed that, because we didn’t want Bella in any pain, we’d check the box marked Do Not Resuscitate in cases of cardiac or respiratory distress.

“I have one question,” my daughter asked softly.

“Yes?” I said.

“Do they…” she looked down.  “Does somebody help her if she’s in distress…or do they just leave her alone?”

“Oh,” I said, looking to the nurse. “I’m guessing they keep her comfortable and stay with her.  Is that right?”

The nurse looked right at my daughter.  “Would you like to come back to the room where she’ll spend the night?  We’re there with her the whole time.  If we can see she’s having trouble, we make sure she’s not in any pain, and if she’s showing signs that she’s at the end, we can help her immediately.  She won’t be in any pain.”

“Okay, then,” my daughter said, looking at the DNR box.  “Okay.”

After we signed everything, the nurse took us back into the clinic.  Rows of clean silver cages held dogs and cats. Bella’s cage was straight ahead.  She sat, hunched, quiet.  Her eyes were closed, her ears drooped down.  Uneaten lettuce lay next to her.

“Goodnight, Bella,” I whispered.  “We’ll see you in the morning, okay?  Rest up and get better.  We love you.”

“Goodnight, Bella,” my daughter whispered.

Her eyes stayed closed but her little nose twitched a little.  I couldn’t help myself.  I asked the nurse if we could pet her before we left.

“Of course,” she said.

We stroked Bella’s velvety fur, told her we loved her, and said our goodbyes, just in case.  The nurse closed the cage and walked us out the door.  “Call anytime for an update,” she said.  “We’re here with her the whole time.”

My daughter and I walked into the small room to get our bags, then burst into tears and hugged one another.  We giggled a bit as we wiped our eyes and blew our noses, knowing how silly it sounds to be crying over a hospitalized bunny, yet knowing how painful it is to leave her behind.

Sleep came quickly to my daughter.  I think she’s hoping the morning will bring good news…I, unfortunately, cannot sleep.  I shouldn’t have googled Bunny G.I. stasis (known as The Silent Killer)…her condition is far more grim than I’d thought.  I distracted myself by watching a video of Barack Obama announcing to the nation that Osama bin Laden had been killed by American military personnel.  An historic end to a terrorist’s life.

It occurs to me only now: my daughter and I arrived at Animal 911 (yes, that’s the name) at 9pm and left around 11pm on the night that the mastermind of 9/11 was killed.  As America celebrates the death of Osama bin Laden, I am praying for the recovery of a life far more important.

UPDATE:  The next morning, I called the animal hospital to get an update on Bella.  The receptionist put me on hold, and a vet came on the line.

“Mrs. Wolf, I’m sorry.  We tried to call you around four this morning.  Bella went into cardiac arrest.”  She explained the details of the situation, reassured me that Bella was not in pain and that she went quickly.  I asked if I could put her on speaker phone so my daughter could hear the details as well.  As the doctor repeated the story, we listened, sitting frozen at the kitchen counter with tears running down our faces.  When we hung up, she burst into tears and sobbed.  I cried with her.

We printed out a photo of Bella and decided we’d pay a visit to the school social worker, Ms. Flores.  My daughter wanted me to be the one to share the news.  I told Ms. Flores that Bella had died, and I was surprised by how emotional I was.  Ms. Flores reassured us she’d be around for whatever was needed, and that she was sorry for our loss.

We left the office and walked toward the fifth grade classrooms.  Just before we arrived at my daughter’s door, she turned to me and said in a determined voice, “I’ve got it, Mom.” Her red, swollen eyes said so much.  I knew she’d walk into that class, take one look at her best friend, Luci, and fight back tears, waiting for the moment she’d have to utter the words, “Bella died.”

I know a little piece of her died, too.

We’ll bury Bella in the front yard tonight, beside the two guinea pigs, the lizard, and the school of fish we’ve bid adieu to over the years.  The sun is shining, and life will go on.

CNN’s Wolf Blitzer is a journalist, and because of my column on Patch.com, I suppose, in a way, I’m one, too.  Wolf states that last night was one he will never forget.  I suppose, in a way, I feel exactly the same.

Writing Distraction #1: Family Pets

I’m one of those moms who lets her children have pets.

I have many friends who aren’t pet people.  I’ve envied them many times, especially when I come into their orderly, dog-hair-free zones, greeted by the smell of a clean house and not the smell of wet dog or a guinea pig cage in need of cleaning.

I grew up with household pets (dogs, cats, frogs, fish, gerbils), and my mother often pointed out how the work always fell to her — walking the dog, cleaning cages, purchasing food, etc.  She didn’t complain about it, really…she was rather matter-of-fact about her role.  Therefore, when MY children were old enough to ask for pets of their own, I wasn’t fazed by what followed:  blissful adoration for the first three days of ANY newly acquired pet, then the gentle reminders to “feed/water/clean/interact with/say hello to/stop putting clothes on top of the cage and remember you have a pet”.  I’ve always remembered how family pets made me feel, how much I loved them, even when I forgot to clean their cages or — eeek — feed them as a child.  Mom did that for me, and now I’m doing it for my children.  Funny, that.

So far, here are the pets who’ve touched the lives of our children:

–Dogs:  Chloe was a black lab mix adopted from the Anti-Cruelty Society of Chicago and lived almost 15 years — Mike and I considered her our “first” child.  When Chloe died, Maggie, our middle child and only daughter, was five.  A little piece of Maggie’s heart went with Chloe.

Maggie and Chloe. Sisters forever.

Maggie and Henry, excited to pick out our new family dog from  Thunder Labradors in Wisconsin.

After Chloe died, we waited a year, and then drove to a breeder in Wisconsin to find another family dog.  This time, we picked male yellow lab.

Maggie and Nate meet Jack

Even Henry, a non-dog-guy, fell in love with Jack.

Jack’s almost 4 years old now —  and he weighs almost as much as me.  He thinks and acts like a cat, cozying up to a roaring fire and climbing onto our laps to “nestle.”  Our biggest mistake with this dog was training him to stop counter-surfing by saying, “Off!”  Now, whenever he tries to sneak food off the counter (especially when guests are over), Mike and I sheepishly admonish the dog by shouting, “JACK, OFF!”  Guests’ eyebrows often raise when hearing that phrase, and explanations usually ensue.

–Fish:  The kids have all had them — beta fish, goldfish, and even the various exotic freshwater kind that require filters and air pumps and charcoal mechanisms to keep the water clean.

–Lizards:  Gekkos, green anoles, you name it.  One lizard in particular — “Veggie”, an Egyptian Euromastyx — found her way to our home when Mike’s boss’s son couldn’t accompany him to college.  Veggie was long and dragon-like and had a hard, spiny tail that thrashed to scare away predators (such as little 3-year-old brothers who tapped annoyingly on the tank).  Veggie’s various accoutrement included heat lamps, UV lights, a heated rock for basking.  We also made frequent trips to the pet store for her live cricket appetizers — so frequent, in fact, that I signed up as a member of the pet store’s “Cricket Club”.  When this delicacy wasn’t available, Veggie’s favorite meal was Bird’s Eye frozen mixed vegetables (thus, the name “Veggie”).  She passed away recently, after almost 15 years.  She had shared a room with Henry for five of those years.  And, although she wasn’t a pet he could cuddle or walk, she was a constant, reliable friend.  We knew she was near the end when she stopped eating and drinking.  Henry, 12, fought back tears talking about how he knew Veggie would die soon.  She meant something to him, and we talked about her over the next few days, recalling when we brought her home, entering her in the school science fair, feeding her crickets.  After she’d died, I realized I’d never taken a single photo of her; however, I recently found a blurry shot of her on Henry’s camera phone.

–Gerbils:  All I’ll say is, our two gerbils lasted faaaaar longer than the gerbil books predicted.  And, they bit.  And hid.  And peed.  And gnawed their way through 3 cages.  When those gerbils, Drake and Josh, finally died (within two days of one another, which would have been romantic had they not been brothers from Pet Smart), it was the dead of winter.  Maggie wanted to bury them properly, but the ground was frozen and covered with snow.  Mags wanted to bury them in the local cemetary off Sheridan Road.  I considered that scenario for an hour or two — even driving past the entrance gates, hoping we might dash in and “bury” the brothers under dark of night — but decided a backyard burial might prove more meaningful and legal…in the Spring.  And so, Drake and Josh R.I.P.’ed in an Oberweis Milk cooler in the backyard through that winter, waiting for their proper burial once the ground thawed.  In April, Maggie and I dug a deep hole near the backyard fence, and said a few prayers and goodbyes.  We gently placed the brown paper bag holding Drake and Josh into the hole, and Maggie clutched me and wept.  I hadn’t thought about these gerbils for months.  My seven-year-old daughter cried and wished them peace, then did an amazing thing only a young, innocent heart might think of.  She leaned over the hole, letting her tears fall on the bag.  Then, she looked up at me, wiped her eyes, and said, “We can fill the hole up now, Mom.”

Big sister Marshmellow greets her baby sister, S'Mores

–Guinea Pigs:  We’ve gone through three, and it’s been a lovely yet painful process.  Following the death of the gerbils, Maggie asked for a guinea pig for her 8th birthday.  Instead of one, we got her two (and that was entirely my doing:  I felt the poor little thing would want a friend).  Pig #1, Marshmello (spelled intentionally that way due to her temperament) was a white fluffy angel.  Pig #2, S’mores, was cursed from the start.  We brought her home from the pet store, wondering why he was so skittish and frantic…and learned months later, after a trip to the vet, that she had an incurable skin disorder beyond treatment.  We had her put to sleep at Terry Animal Hospital in Wilmette and then took her home in a box lined with a towel.  On the drive back to Evanston, I called Mike and said, “We’re coming home, and we need to bury S’Mores.”  Without a word, Mike put aside what he was doing and started digging a hole under a pine tree in our front yard.  We pulled up to the house and Maggie ran to her dad’s arms.  The hole was already dug, and Mike held Maggie tight as I brought the box over to them.  We held a little ceremony right there, and Maggie wished S’Mores peace and comfort in her eternal slumber.  One huge lesson:  Guinea Pigs don’t have eyelids.  Thus, the open-eyed stare of a deceased guinea pig is not the “peacefully resting” image you get when burying, say, a couple of gerbils.

We found a new cage-mate for Marshmellow, and named him Bear-Bear.  He was a feisty little fluff of a friend for Marshmellow, and Maggie had high hopes that the two would create a litter of their own.  Children would approach me on the playground at school saying, “When your guinea pigs have babies, can we have one?”  The progeny never appeared — Marshmellow died five months after Bear-Bear arrived.  Her death was entirely unexpected.  Mags and I had just returned from an out-of-town trip, and when she went up to check on Marshmellow, she found her guinea pig lying quietly in her crate.

Very quietly.

Maggie came downstairs and excitedly reported that Marshmellow was “lying down” (in hopes, perhaps, that she was in labor).  When I went up to check on her, it was obvious that she was gone.  Bear-Bear was sitting quietly in a corner of the cage, clearly confused.  This event happened, again, in the dead of winter.  And, once again, Mike and I decided a Spring burial would be in order.  So, Marshmellow is waiting patiently in the backyard for her time.  I think a spot next to S’Mores, under the pine tree, might be the perfect spot.

Some people must wonder: “what kind of parent introduces so many pets into a child’s life, knowing death will come sooner or later?”  I will acknowledge that the pain of watching or learning about a pet’s death is heartbreaking.   However, the joy each pet brings into our family is so much greater.  The communication we share, as a family, about the care, the changes, the challenges, the cuteness, and the special moments with these pets is invaluable.  The lessons the animals teach us as a family — about caring for more than just ourselves, about patience when learning new behaviors and about stretching our hearts with love for another living thing — they’re lessons I can’t teach my children any other way.  We witness the cycle of life, and see firsthand that after the extreme pain of loss comes an understanding and appreciation of the memories created long ago.  Maggie sees the spirit of Chloe, our black lab, in the fiesty idiocy of our yellow lab, Jack…and helps us keep perspective.  Maggie believes that Jack’s raucous dog dreams are filled with romps with Chloe…and we’ve come to believe her.  Children really help us see what’s right in front of us.

Maggie is clearly our animal lover.  She’s done with guinea pigs, and now has a fluffy velveteen rabbit named Bella.  As Maggie has matured, so has her love and care and level of responsibility for her pets.  Now, if we can just keep Jack the labrador away from Bella the bunny, we’ll all be good for another winter…

Full Disclosure:  Because Maggie was so sad about our beloved black lab’s death at age 15, we decided to empower her — we took her back to the Anti-Cruely Society of Chicago (from which we adopted Chloe) and held her 9th birthday celebration there.  Maggie asked her friends to donate food and pet toys to the shelter in lieu of presents.  The staff was so touched by Maggie’s love of animals, they created “Junior Volunteer” badges for the girls and let them interact with the dogs and cats up for adoption.  It’s been one of the most meaningful experiences of Maggie’s life.

Maggie cuddles a black lab mix, Candy, at the Anti Cruelty Society of Chicago

I must sign off …a dear friend just stopped by to let me know her youngest daughter dropped a bit of hand lotion into her older daughter’s fish tank…looks like they’re headed to the pet store to find a replacement fish (I think they’ll be calling him “Ted Jr.”).  I think I’ll forward her this post…