While I was travelling I found myself having to deal with something I always knew I would have to – but would never with any part of me wish to. I was in Paris, mum was in Iceland, Michael was looking after everything at home, and my sweet 18 month mini lop Pancakes had a heart attack. They told us it was a heart condition, only a matter of time, there was nothing we could have done. But I kick myself. I could have (should have) been there for Geo. He got sick, he stopped eating, and he passed away three days later. They say it was a broken heart.
When I think about going home, I think about these two precious creatures. I think about the way they love to jump on everything, the way their ears sit exactly like the sign language word for rabbit, how they learnt how to kiss me goodnight. Their teeny tiny paws and their teeny tiny heads. And now when I think about going home, I know they’re not going to be there. And that’s really fucking hard.
And I think about the life they had. They weren’t kept in a cage full of poop and no water. They weren’t kept alone. They were so loved, and they projected that love on to everyone else – they knew when we were sad, when we were happy. They were friends with the chickens, and the wild bunnies, and the little cousins. They were the first creatures you would see when you arrived at our house, and everyone loved them so much.
And they had an amazing time, eating as much dandy as they possibly could, and frolicking (I couldn’t think of a better word) everywhere they went, and they enjoyed nights inside watching Love Actually with the rest of the family.
And it will be so fucking hard going home for that first time, and not seeing them. But I know that they were happy, and for all the happiness they gave me, that’s all I could ever possibly ask for.
