There are 38 holes in my favourite black t-shirt. I wore it the other day to a hipster thingy because the alternatives were a fuchsia chiffon babydoll or a daffodil yellow soccer strip that Hubster likes to play boules in. In my zeal to declutter I have accidentally donated everything else to my local tuk tuks. I hoped my perforated T might have that “I don’t give two shits” uber cool vibe that Hipsters seem to dig. On arrival I saw my reflection in the vintage porn-shades of the first beardy fellow I mumbled “yo” to and realised I just looked uber poor.
So on my day off yesterday, and being unable to relinquish my premier chemise, I stitched and patched all the holes, most of them the size of a peppercorn, and all of them made by Bunster during his nocturnal nibblings. You drop your pants on the floor at 9pm and next morning you have culottes. It took four contented hours, with me babbling my customary monologue to the rabbit as he surveilled me from his spot on the stairs.
Life has a way of fucking you up when you least expect it. Within an hour of me putting my sewing down and my resurrected t-shirt on, our little orange pet was fighting for his life against some mystery, breath sucking malady that turned his lips blue and his ears cold. We rushed him to the vet in a double chicken bag and a careening tuk tuk. He licked some water from our fingers and let us hold him in ways he never usually did. 40 minutes after we left him the vet called to say our little mate had gone.
Ah Bunster. You little three-legged bastard. We designed all the electrical sockets in our apartment to sit an off-spec 60cm above the floor so you couldn’t chew through our chargers. Somehow you still managed eight. You got postcards when we went on holiday, and sat quietly licking us when we were sick. You jumped for joy every night Hubster came home from work and hopped ‘round his legs like man’s best friend – you were undoubtedly his. You ate your way through bushels of imported French dill and chewed the bjorkesfarken out of four IKEA bobble mats. You shredded my lucky $2 note, chewed all the buttons off the remote, and shat enough little vegan pellets to manure us some fine stands of balcony bamboo. You violated furniture at every opportunity so we got your own chair for exactly this purpose. You loved having your cheeks scratched, being brushed not so much. You had the most adorable yawn in the world.
On the way back to the vet Hubster sobbed quietly and made some calls. I blubbered and blathered about what to do next: maybe bring him home and put him in the fridge overnight so the ants wouldn’t get him? Buried or cremated? Could we pour honey on him like they do at Pashupatinath to mask the smell of bodies burning? Could I make his ashes into some kind of fabulous amulet? The vet was tearful. Bunny looked asleep, still warm, still our little guy. We cuddled him for a while, then swaddled him in Hubster’s favourite red krama, lay him gently in the chicken bag, and went to mum-in-law’s place across the river. Now close to 8pm, and despite his own shock, Love’s Helpmeet had managed to organise a proper send-off while I wailed and gnashed all the way down the hell-ride that is Highway 1, dust and bunny tears indistinguishable.
At mum’s, five young monks arrived from the Wat behind the house, trailing a posse of pre-teen grave diggers. The young lads solemnly petted our little bloke, then vigorously set about clearing a spot under the banana trees next to the family spirit house. Though there was a full moon, it was a dim dusty red, so everyone turned on their phones to give them light by which to toil. Meanwhile, sisters and brothers prepared a low daybed with a rattan mat, a small red-patterned plush carpet, and a white sheet. Final pats and we laid him down gently as mum folded a white scarf pillow under his head. The monks did their thing, glowing orange and chanting in the warm dark as I willed an ear twitch or a sleepy wuffle from the world’s first lagomorph Lazarus. As perfumed water flicked over him the kids sang a final round of something everyone but me knew, last pats, and then husband swaddled him and laid him in the ground – the first time he’d ever been anywhere near his natural habitat.
Just a month or two old, Bunny found us just before Christmas 2011 – he’d escaped from a neighbouring 2nd floor balcony, a broken-legged Yule gift for someone who didn’t think much of him. We thought the world. Newlywed and broke, we kidnapped him and moved to rabbit-friendly digs in the heart of CharmingVille. He had the run of the house, and grew into a sweet, odd, destructive, mischievous, hilarious and loving non-human child. We’ll never forget him. Even if we wanted to, it’ll be a long time coming. From our sheets to our couch, from our hats to our shoes and everything in between, everything he left behind is full of holes.