Dutch the Rabbit and the Size of Love

 A dear friend—intentionally nameless, but not without a name—told me about her very well-loved reddish-brown Castor Rex during a conversation in which I was talking about an inappropriate veterinarian on the Long Island Rail Road going into Manhattan and leaving Long Island many jobs ago.

This was before cell phones, or before cellphones were a constant and were not as smart as they are today. When people talked to each other or read and kept their phones out of sight. Time spent on the phones cost money and people really only used them to call home to say when they would be arriving, or for use in an emergency. Public telephones were still on every corner.

The only reason this is important is because the culture of a train ride today may have less interaction and, on this day, I wish I had my headphones on or a phone to play with. Maybe I would not have heard the inappropriate veterinarian. I would like to say he was the asshole veterinarian, but that would mean I might have to go to confession for bad-mouthing a fellow human being.

I was a few rows back from him and we were facing each other, but really could not see one another. I only saw that he was young and had brown hair. He was loud, and pompous—acting self-important. This told me that he felt insecure. His overloud voice told me that he was used to not being heard. In retrospect, I suspect he did not want to admit to the enormous, contagious, infinite nature of love. It takes a strong person to dive in and love. Not everyone can do that. It took me a very long time to understand this and to understand how fragile the souls who fear love.

He was in a four-seater talking with his friends, who never once responded to him. That didn’t stop him. He was carrying on about a family and a bunny. “What idiots would want to spend that kind of money on a rabbit? My gosh, they’re a dime a dozen.” He paused and I wondered if he did that to get attention and to let everyone know he was a doctor.

“Well, what the hell do I care. If they want to pay me to treat their stupid rabbit, I’m happy to take their money. Why would anyone go through that time and expense over a rabbit?” He asked the air, the horrified people around him, maybe no one. The train was silent except for his droning and he droned. He droned through Long Island, on through Queens, the tunnel at Jamaica when it sometimes flickers dark, and into Manhattan.

All I could think of was parents, doing all they could to save their child’s bunny and let her keep her innocence for just a little bit longer. She would have the rest of her life to suffer through illnesses and deaths and tragedies. I don’t know why I pictured this. This could have been any situation, but I went to what was, to me, a fantasy. And I needed a fantasy to SHUT THIS MAN OUT OF MY BRAIN. It’s been years since that train ride, but I never forgot my horror at the inappropriate veterinarian.

*****

I’ve had many vets because I have always had pets as an adult—cats until the addition of Mimi this year—and I’ve moved around a lot. Those who know me know I have a militant love for my pets; animals in general. A statue of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of pets in Catholicism, sits on my dresser next to the urns of Anastasia, Zoë, Glowy, Martha, and Sylvia. I carry a card with his prayer in my bag. If I talk long enough about any of them, I will cry. If I talk long enough about any of them to you, you will cry. We will all cry because love is big and love often takes us by surprise.

What we love doesn’t need to be large. One day I will write about Clementine Shakespeare. A beautiful Starling I saved and we were going to home who turned out to be a Robin. Songbirds are protected under federal law; Starlings are considered pests.

I fell in love with Clementine. We bought her a flight cage, I fed her off of my pinky and felt her suck the food off of me like all babies do. My love for her was big and I still miss her—because big loves leave big holes. But I know she is living her life as the Robin she was meant to be and is off somewhere down here in Virginia with her pal named Ralph. But that is all a story for another day. Today, I will eventually get to a female bunny named Dutch.

*****

My friend and I talked about our pets tonight and I thought about my vets. I have three favorites. There is my vet from New York who has held me as I have sobbed, petting my hair, and whispering words to calm me in my grief. We have our vet in Virginia who seems to get my attachment to my pets and may actually delight in my Tribe. My husband and I are convinced he has to have a drink before he sees us because we are impossible together in any professional’s office. In fact, our family doctor, who will hold Mimi on her lap and talk to me about books, crazy loved ones, and childlessness, prefers Joel and I remain separate when we see her. We are a marriage and a love held together, in part, by mutual ADD, so every moment is a surprise. And, for the record, every moment is filled with a huge love that continues to grow and astound me.

Our emergency vet and Joel surrounded me as I held Sylvia in her favorite blanket in her last moments and he—the vet—cried and hugged me, as did the women behind the reception desk in the middle of the night on a recent Christmas Eve. Sylvia was small, but the love was huge. I miss her and all her buddies every day and writing about her now, I miss her so much that I ache.

Sylvie was about the size of a rabbit. Less than eight pounds and moody and beautiful and deeply embedded in my heart.  My Virginia vet, who knows my emergency vet, sent me a hand-written card that touched me and made me cry and I missed her again. My New York vet wrote me a hand-written note. Again I was touched and cried and missed her some more,

I know none of these wonderful men ever made fun of me for my worry and my tears and my grief. They all love animals. All animals. My New York vet has treated baby hedgehogs with as much care as huge Great Danes. My Virginia vet treats rats more than occasionally.

These men are in the business of love and worry and grief and new love. They understand that hole in our hearts when we lose a pet. They would never think of us as stupid or make fun of us behind our backs on the Long Island Rail Road. And I think my horror with the inappropriate vet had to do with him telling us strangers on the train that morning and not telling those people with their bunny. Maybe I should have stood up for the bunny and her people. I have done a lot of that and those types of confrontations can sometimes go awry. Also, I’m a New Yorker and I get New Yorkers and train confrontations rarely end well.

So I seethed and remember him upon occasion when I rescued a little animal—one time a bunny—and rushed these helpless little creatures to a rescue center or a wildlife vet or a credentialed rehabber and remained as I was assured that wherever I was leaving these precious little ones the people caring for them were committed to saving all lives, no matter how small. I know one thing. They all understand that love is big and life is big.

*****

I understand that the inappropriate vet was small because of who he is, and that is so very sad for him.

*****

Dutch was my friend’s first pet that was all her own and she loved Dutch who was adorable and a reddish brown and who liked to hop around the living room. Her husband got her Dutch for Easter and she fell hard for her little girl. A little bunny can equal a great love. And this was her first real fur baby love. She loved Socrates, her cat who lived for twenty years, and she’s talked about him often. I may even have his food dish in my cabinet. I’m certain I do.

My friend talks about Socrates, but she doesn’t really mention Dutch, and that told me more about her love for Dutch than anything else.

*****

They can leave a huge hole those first loves. Sometimes their memory can dampen our eyes even many years later when our hearts remind us of our ache.

Dutch fell ill one night and my friend and her husband, who had never been to a vet as a married couple, were calling emergency vets late one Friday night. Dutch was likely having a stroke and when she saw my friend, she tried, but could not, stand. She was alone in those moments when my friend and her husband tried to get help. My friend was crying on the telephone and the vet felt terrible and said she would wait for her; she was just about to close, but Dutch needed to be seen and the vet wanted to see her and felt it was important to see her.

She went to Dutch to pick her up and realized that Dutch had died in those short, panicked moments.

*****

My friend was devastated that night. She was still upset that Monday when she returned to work. Friends asked what was wrong and she told them.

“Oh. Well, it’s only a rabbit.” My friend felt a bit belittled in her grief. This is just not fair and I am angry for what these women who I don’t know said to my friend and how their little statement left a big hurt with someone whose hurt was already so big.

My friend knew what these women did not: Dutch was not just a rabbit. She was a big love. She was a big love to two people with big hearts who loved her every day of her small life, which really was not so small. She brought happiness and joy—two different things I’ve been told—every day.

You see, Dutch had a big life. Clementine is having a big life. Sylvia had a big life. Love is not based on size, or time, or anything we will understand. Love is love is love.

*****

Sometime later these women experienced the deaths of their pets. I wonder if they learned how big a love becomes. I do not wish them grief, but I do wish them understanding, and I do hope they appreciated the compassion they received but were unable to give my friend during her great grief over her big love.

Tune in next time, dear readers. Until then, the Tribe and I wish you love, joy, and health. We hope you consider: Are you the rescuer or the rescued?