A Goodbye

 Dear Cees,

I held you on the first day you were born. 

It was April 22nd, 2022. Benjamin ran in from outside and said “I need help! A lot of babies are coming out of Sans.” I ran out, and sure enough, there were a lot of babies. Ten little Voldemort-looking pink wiggly things, all piled on top of one another inside a cardboard box too small for them. 

We carefully gathered up your mother Sans’s removed fur and put it in a more steady box, and we hoped she would know enough and care enough to take care of you. Your father, Timmy the Destroyer, never took much interest in you kits, but Uncle Tucker would set up camp outside the box and check in on you now and again. 

After your runt sibling didn’t make it, something seemed to click in San’s head because she started feeding and caring for you remaining nine. 

Every day, I would go out and take a video log of how you were growing and changing. 

I saw as your eyes opened, and your little bunny ears. I watched you take your first tentative steps outside your nursery hutch, began to explore the world around you on shaky little legs and too-big feet. 

You were curious. You wanted to see the grass outside the hopparena. That is how you ended up on our radar, distinguishing yourself from your brothers and sisters. Because an old woman, long since past her bearing years, had been watching the new mother and her babies with longing, and she just wanted to be a part of it, too.

Mikasa didn’t mean to hurt you. She just scooped you up because you were the one outside the cage, and she so wanted a baby of her own. She could have chomped down on you like a chicken nugget, but she carried you in her mouth with such tenderness and care until Ben found you and rescued you.

You were a bit crunchy and curly from dog saliva, and so very thankful to be alive as I checked you for injury. 

Ever after that, you lived for moments with us, your humans. You never again ventured outside the cage, even when your siblings got bigger and went exploring. The only sojourn you would make was to the backdoor, where you would lay on the cold cement by the screen and wait for it to swing open. 

Whenever we did come out for a visit, you would be our little shadow, following behind. Setting up camp in our laps or by our feet, showing us how you bathed and binkied. You liked it when I read to you or sang, making your tiny little contented noises. 

After your ordeal, you also had your name: C.S. Lewis. I had been telling my friend Andrew about you, and he called you C.S. It stuck, even if I always called you Cees. 

You were the last one. As your brothers and sisters got older, they moved on to their forever homes. Some we lost along the way. Rabbits are so strong and still so very fragile; they were not meant for environs such as these, with its relentless heat and wild predators. There is a reason God made bunnies to reproduce like they do, as only 40% of any litter will make it to adulthood.

You knew you were safe, though. Because you had us, the ones that had saved you before. You trusted so fully in us to save you again. 

As you got older, I worried you would be lonely without other bunnies in your hutch. You never seemed to suffer for it, though. When the weather was nice, I would lay out in the grass with you. You were my quiet place--I would press my forehead to yours, and you would close your eyes and rub my nose with yours in little bunny kisses. At night, I would bring you in to lay down with me and cuddle before I went to bed and you went back to your hutch. Every morning, I would take you around and you’d wake up the kids with me. You liked your family, your yard that grew so wild and full. 

When you got sick, I was so scared. You were so scared. But I sang to you and you remembered: these are the people that take care of me. You moved toward the sound of my voice, even as you struggled for every breath. I raged at God, accusing Him of making such a cruel disease for such a helpless animal. I called Him unkind and told Him that He better make my rabbit well again. 

And He did. 

You got better. 

You had lost half your body weight, just a little wisp of a guy. But you were still my joyful boy, fighting to stay with us. 

The sickness ended up costing you an eye and two teeth. It looked like it was so painful, but you were still you--binkying, purring, chattering you. 

I took you to school with me, tucked into my jacket as I taught. The kids asked about your eye, and learned how brave a fighter you were. They all wanted to pet you. You liked getting the attention, and you liked not being left home alone. 

After you had been given the all-clear, we brought home three little bunny girls for your companions. How happy you were! They were already, at three months, so much stronger and healthier and bigger than you at a year, but they doted on you. Merry Berry nurtured you; Seafairy played with you. 

But to Kelda, you were her bunny. She was born blind in her left eye, and you had lost your right. You were probably the first half-blind rabbit she had met that was like her. She would set up on your blind side and you would watch out for each other. She got aggressive if she thought anyone was taking your attention away from her, and would fight her sister to keep Seafairy away from you. 

Even with repeated procedures, you weren’t getting any better. We knew every day with you was a blessing because most rabbits would have died if they had gone through half of what you did. But you still looked up at me like I was your world, put your forehead to mine and gave me those little bunny kisses.

After you died, I asked Amber if she believed in heaven. I am still learning and growing, because the Things Unseen part of the Bible, the mystical part…it is harder for me. Whatever I believe or do not believe about the Afterlife does not alter the reality of what is yet to come. I figure any imaginings I have therefore are for my own comfort, and I will otherwise have to wait and see. 

After I lost you, I like to imagine that you ran into my vision of heaven. It is a quiet stream, a place of rest, because you so need rest. You were so tired. If Heaven can be anything, it can be simultaneous and timeless. So you didn’t have to wait for me at all. You ran right back into my arms. You put your little forehead to mine. And you gave me your little bunny kisses. And I sang you Home.

I love you, C.S. Lewis. Thank you for everything. I won’t ever forget you. 

--Andie 

I have been taking this week hard. I have cried a lot for a sweet creature that made me his world. How strange and awful and wonderful it is to be human, so that we can experience such levels of grief over something so small, so fleeting. There has been a lot of feelings of guilt. He trusted me to save him, and I wasn’t able to this time. That maybe if I wasn’t so selfish, I wouldn’t have let him suffer this long. I bargained and broke. I just wanted my bunny back. 

Sad as it is to say, I resented the other three rabbits for being the wrong rabbit. They, of course the little perceptive creatures they are, picked up on it. Seafairy hissed at me, Kelda whimpered when I came close, and Merry Berry tried to box me. I have been working to rebuild the trust and relationship with them--I’m not ready yet to sing, but I have read to them. Kelda came and sat by my foot, Seafairy came and put her forehead on mine. 

This letter was recommended in an article I saw online as a way to process the hurt caused by the loss of a beloved pet. I didn’t get C.S. long enough, not nearly. But I am so very thankful to have had him in my life. He was what I needed, when I needed it the most. I hope wherever he is, he knows what he meant to me, and that he is at peace. I sat with my sweet boy as he took his last breath, surrounded by love. This letter is my goodbye.