Proper new post coming soon, I promise, but in the meantime: if I may bring out an old cliche, it's funny how quickly life changes, isn't it? Two years ago right now Ann and I were outside a bar in Washington D.C., trying to hail a cab after going out with one of Ann's college friends and her new boyfriend (now fiancee), on our last "young couple" vacation before trying to get pregnant. Tonight? I gave my 14-month-old daughter a bath, put her in her crib, watched "Julie & Julia" with Ann (don't revoke my man card), and sat quietly on the couch in front of my TV watching Dick Clark count down to the New Year. (And wincing when he missed a number. Poor guy.) That is... quite a change, but not one I regret in the slightest.
It's been a long, tough year, folks, but thanks for sticking with me. Here's to a brighter 2010!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Remember
Let me first apologize in advance for going back on what I said last time; this won't be a funny post either, but I promise the next one will be appropriately immature. Before that, I just wanted to add a short addendum to my last entry. First, many many thank yous to everyone who offered their condolences to Ann and myself on Facebook. It was an extremely tough experience- I said on Facebook that we lost a good friend, but that undervalues Gizmo's status... for the last six years she was a member of our family, before Ann and I even knew we were going to end up a family. Despite myriad other things contributing to make this a bad week, chief among them painful ear infections for Molly and Ann, we are doing somewhat better now, thank you. I think what's surprised me most about the aftermath is how many little things remind me of Gizmo, even when I'm not consciously thinking of her. It's hard to walk into my den or in that general vicinity of the house, because while I rarely thought of it before, my ears subconsciously tune in, expecting to hear the clanging of metal as Giz scampers to the front of her cage to see if I'm coming to feed her. Now, the silence speaks volumes. The other day I noticed that I hadn't opened the front window shades on my way out in the morning, then realized with a pang that I didn't need to... there's no one to let natural light in for during the day. At class on Tuesday, I saw a stack of the student newspaper and resisted grabbing a handful, because there's no litter tray to line anymore. And that first night, Monday night, was the first time in the years we've lived in this house when I've been home but haven't fed her a handful of hay as my final action before going to bed. So many unexpected reminders. But in a way, I'm glad. Not for the pain... that I could live without. But for the memories. I mentioned last time that I wouldn't think of trading away all the joy Gizmo brought us if it meant we'd be spared the sorrow of the last few days. That remains the case, and the last thing I want to do is forget our bunny. True, the memories are still raw and difficult, and they may stay that way for a while. But I know that in the long term, what we'll remember will be the good times with her, and that's worth a little momentary sadness any day.
Monday, December 7, 2009
In Memory of Gizmo
Hi, everyone. I apologize for the length of time since my last post, and I'll warn you right now that this is not going to be a light, cheery entry. If you'd like, feel free to skip it and wait until next time, when we'll go back to talking about bathrooms or whatever. I won't be offended, I promise. If you're still here, please bear with me, as it's been a very rough day and you'll have to forgive me if I'm not up to my usual standards. The thing is that we had to put our bunny Gizmo to sleep today.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
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