The Story Garden 5.0
Nonfiction
Therapist Zippy
My twelve-year-old daughter pleaded for a rabbit as her Christmas gift the year after her mother moved herself and my children away. I researched online and chatted with teenage zoology majors employed as clerks in pet stores. I decided on a Netherlands Dwarf buck with accompanying cage, litter and food. This breed gets no larger than bunny size. Full grown I held him in the palm of my hand. With short ears, he was a little brown cloud with a sweet temperament. Cute as hell.
Naming discussions ensued. His little Hitler-like mustache made me want to call him Jacques (Chirac). He liked to scoot around the couch jumping from lap to lap nose and whiskers working incessantly, my daughter wanted to call him Zippy. Each time he shed his markings changed until once an adult he became fully monochromatic. Zippy it was.
She cuddled and cooed him, held him against her chest and under her chin. An angry red rash began to appear on her neck after these sessions. Once this process started, it progressed rapidly. Ultimately, walking into the house caused wheezing, her nose to clog and eyes to water. For her own health she had to abandon him. I moved the poor creature outside onto the enclosed porch next to glass patio doors. We could see each other but did not share the same air.
Zippy’s circumstances were not optimum. When it was cold he flashed about in the cage. In the heat of summer he sprawled out. A solution was not obvious, I was at a loss. I fed him and did the necessary cage maintenance. He was not the most pampered animal. Basic needs were met. I’m not the most proactive person, I find the answer tends to show itself if one is patient.
From a nature show I remembered that with mammals the rule was the smaller the beast the shorter the lifespan, their little hearts beating so fast a terminal count is quickly reached. I figured I would wait him out. A year later I was having a meeting with our marketing director. She arrived late red-eyed and flushed, she had been crying. Her bunny had died that morning. He was twelve years old.
~~~
My next-door neighbor, who fancied me and given any encouragement would gladly give me a go, was an animal lover. She had several cats. Talked to, gave treats and played with my dog across the back fence.
I doubted her sanity.
Sometime before, when my family was still living with me, she was trimming her trees and figured my foliage needed some attention. She trimmed my trees and bundled up the waste stacking it at the curb for pickup. My wife and I discussed what to do about this intrusion. I ended up going over and requested in friendly yet firm tones she should not come onto and alter any of our property without our knowledge or permission.
At first she was hurt. This festered into anger. At that time she was a clerical worker for the police department and cops were often hanging around her place. Officers visited me every now and then “We’ve had a complaint” about this or that. It took a while for the incident to blow over and for us to become chat over the fence neighbors again. Her anger left her when my wife left me.
When she discovered Zippy on the back porch she took it upon herself to care for this unfortunate creature, me being the typical irresponsible male without a woman to make sure things were done right. I kept the bunny supplies on the porch and after a short while she was coming in to feed, water, change litter and launder bedclothes. I began to get mail from the ASPCA, somehow I had made it on their mailing list. Most every day she came on my porch and did things, helpful things, uninvited. I never saw her back there. I kept trying to convince myself it was the bunny elves. This went on through several seasons. It was creepy and a source of concern.
I considered offering Zippy to her. I hesitated for several reasons: it was my daughter’s animal a gift from me. It might be seen as an advance. I was scared of her. By this time in my life I had sworn off crazy women.
We were doing a denial dance.
One pleasant spring day I drove up from work, she was out hose in hand watering her lawn. With a wave and a howdy I strolled over. “You know . . . If you’d like to have Zippy . . . You just go ahead and take him and all his stuff.”
“Well . . .” She was concentrating on getting water equally distributed on her greening lawn, “I’ve thought about that but I’ve got cats living inside. I don’t think it would work.”
“That’s cool. If you change your mind or if you know anyone. The offer is open.”
Still unspoken this conversation was an acknowledgement of what had been happening. I felt more grounded in reality. The visits didn’t stop though.
A couple of months later she caught me out front. “I’ve been taking some classes in psychology at church, working toward being a Christian youth counselor.”
“Good for you. That is noble.”
“Thanks. There is a woman I have been working with whose specialty is counseling sexually abused children. She uses animals in her therapy.”
“Really, when dad was in physical rehab they brought in therapy dogs a couple of times a week. He really enjoyed it. I think it helped him.”
“Dogs and cats are not an option here. A sexual predator will often not only threaten to kill or injure the victim’s parents and family but the family pets as well. Using a dog or cat can sometimes make things worse.”
“God that is awful.”
“It is the truth. What she does use are rabbits. They are soft and calming and unusual as pets. Often children will relax and open up while stroking a bunny. She said she would be willing to take Zippy on and train him as a therapy bunny. He will live in a barn with other animals and have a job being handled and loved by children. If that is alright with you?”
I could not imagine a more perfect resolution. When I told my daughter the light in her face glowed her approval. “That is way cool” she enthused.
--Tom Doughty
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