because I was 5

I had a dream last night that I owned a pet bunny. Of course I didn't live in my current place, as an NYC apartment is no place for a bunny. I won't go into the details, partly because they are unimportant and partly because I don't remember them. But I do know what brought the dream on.

Yesterday I received a call from the person that I will be maid-of-honoring. She slipped into the conversation a question about how my animal volunteering was going. I was taken aback for a second, wondering how she knew - as she is not a blog-reader - but I figured I must have told her about it. No, the shelter had actually called her as a reference. I knew they were strict on adoption, and apparently they are strict on everything. She had told them that I love all animals and would never mistreat one, any number of them would be lucky to have me around, and other such sensical flattery (which worked, since I was accepted as a volunteer).

But there was a dark spot in what she said.

When I was 5 I had a pet bunny. This bunny is my one regret in life.

Because I was 5, it was the Easter of 1986. My mom came home from work and called me into the kitchen. "I was in the mall today, and the Easter Bunny was there. He asked if I knew a little girl named Desiree, and I said that you were my daughter. He asked me to give you this." And she magically pulled out a box that I swear hadn't been there before. Inside was a fluffy white bunny. A real one.

Because I was 5, I believed the story. It was made all the more convincing by the use of my name. This was a device employed by my family to act on my gullability. When I was around the same age while at Disneyland, my sister told me that the monster in the Matterhorn ride ate 5 year old girls with blonde hair named Desiree. Even more specific. To this day, I have never seen the inside of that ride because I was hiding under the seat. But I digress.

Because I was 5, I had not yet reached my creative peak, and I named my new pet Thumper. I thought everyone would get the reference, but apparently most people weren't as familiar with "Bambi" as I was. My Thumper was half angora and half mini-lop. This meant he had very soft fur, was giant, and one ear stood straight up while the other flopped down.

Because I was 5, I was an irresponsible pet owner. I never played with Thumper. My dad built a nice hutch and I never cleaned it. My parents did the feeding and watering. Somehow Thumper made it through all this. Once, on a rare occasion when I went out to see him, he escaped from his cage. He scratched me with his big rabbit feet and jumped to the ground. He ran. The German Shepherd caught wind of this and ran after him. Thumper was caught and attacked.

Because I was 5, I couldn't stop what I was seeing. I screamed, which brought my parents out. They were able to stop the attack and save Thumper, who had been gutted by the dog's teeth. I don't know how it happpened, but Thumper survived the attack. He lived several more years until he died of old age. Even though the image of my dog trying to eat my bunny was burned in my mind forever, my treatment of the bunny never changed.

Because I am no longer 5, I look back on my bunny ownership filled with sorrow and regret. If only I had been a better friend to Thumper. That bunny had a miserable life, because of me. I view it not only as a mar on my record of pet ownership, but as a mar on my soul. When Judgement Day approaches, I am sure Thumper will be there to judge me. "Why did you treat me so badly?" he will ask. I will reply with tears in my eyes:

"Because I was 5."