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February 15, 2007
1042: Lil' Man
I've had one hell of a day.
I'd been dreading it from the start because I knew I'd have to deal with the unpleasant task of getting my beloved Dewey to the vet, which is more complicated than it sounds.
Firstly, he's a rabbit and not every vet is really qualified to treat him. In order to get him in to see an appropriate vet, you've got to cope with the annoyance of a little travel, a not entirely convenient time-slot, and perhaps a wait to even schedule a visit.
Secondly, well, he's a rabbit. It's not like putting a leash on a dog and walking him to the animal hospital. Rabbits, particularly this one, aren't very travel-friendly. We can barely get a grip on the little guy to trim his nails, which ends up being a traumatic experience for everyone involved. If a rabbit doesn't want to be caught or held, he just won't let it happen. Nature made rabbits fast because nature also made them delicious to the rest of the animal world. Although attempting to catch an unwilling rabbit may look like a Benny Hill chase scene, it's neither fun nor easy, and no one ends up making out with a surprised female cop/nurse/etc.
On Monday night, I resigned myself to having to deal with all of this because it became apparent that Dewey might actually be sick. Unlike our New Year's Eve adventure when he went limp and lethargic, before spontaneously recovering like a little, fuzzy Lazarus, Dewey continues to show no significant change in terms of his energy level. He's his normal, thumping, jumping, running-around-the-house self. He's got a healthy appetite (for both food and destruction). He seems to be a healthy bunny. The only cause for concern is the fact that over the past two weeks he's been sneezing and while this is completely, 100% adorable, it's also a sign of illness. Since there was no nasal discharge and the onset of his sneezing coincided with a sudden cold snap, we wondered if it had something to do with the apartment being over-dry due to the heating or simply allergies.
We monitored things for a while, but decided to make an appointment when Dewey, inexplicably, sneezed out a tiny glob of white goop. It looked like Elmer's Glue, the kind you used in elementary school to adhere macaroni to cigar boxes for your Mom. (Perhaps some of you even ate it -- I, for one, would NEVER but to each his own, n'est pas?) After this horrifying discovery, I promptly freaked out, called Pete, called the vet, scheduled an appointment for Dewey, and then lay on the floor for a few hours staring at my little buddy who seemed completely unfazed by the incident. So unfazed, in fact, that we're not sure he's even sneezed since it happened. In any event, I had an appointment and being a responsible pet owner, I knew the thing to do would be to take him in to be checked out. That was Monday night and today is Thursday, the day of his appointment.
I dreaded having to catch him and get him down to the vet myself but Pete wasn't able to assist due to work obligations. I had to be brave. I had to be firm. So at 10 AM, shortly before I needed to leave with my carrier-contained rabbit, I set into motion my slightly ill-conceived rabbit-trapping plan.
Dewey has complete access to the living room and kitchen, and the doorway separating the two is a fairly wide space in an exposed brick wall with a small, black I-beam running along the top to form a doorframe. The apartment has hardwood floors throughout, which prove to be a little tricky to navigate at top speed for someone with furry feet like Dewey's. He's much faster in the living room, which is largely covered by a tatami-like rug that provides greater traction. In the living room, he can be almost impossible to catch because he can run so much faster and change direction with greater ease; in the kitchen, the floor is far too slippery for him to elude you effectively. As Dewey nonchalantly munched pellets in the kitchen, oblivious to what tragedy was about to befall him, I casually set up a babygate in the doorway to keep him trapped in the kitchen.
When Dewey was a young thing, we kept him in the kitchen with this same set-up. We (I) thought he might injure himself in the living room if left unattended, but over time he's proven himself capable of avoiding any potential dangers there (knock on wood) and we've effectively rabbit-proofed the place to keep him from getting electrocuted Looney Toons-style. Now that he's got free run of these rooms, he's not at all impressed by having to be stuck in the kitchen and cut off from the living room, which is where he does most of his hanging out.
He came over to inspect the blockade, at first with a bit of arrogance and a little curiosity. However amused he was then, he quickly became annoyed. He made an admirably parkour-like attempt to jump the babygate, thumped with irritation, and issued a few grunts. He ran around the kitchen in a state of increasing rage, at which point, I decided it was time to introduce the next phase of the bunny-getting effort.
I placed the hideous carrier on the floor, opened one side of it and threw in some treats to tempt him into exploring it. My idea was to get him inside, under his own steam, and then shut the carrier door behind him. Simple. In reality, however, it was not quite that easy. I knew that I only had one shot at getting him inside, and if he managed to get free, he'd never get near the carrier again. He knows what's up. In fact, as soon as I put the carrier on the floor, there didn't seem to be a doubt in his mind about what was happening. He had zero interest in getting near it, and instead continued to focus on trying to jump the babygate.
The carrier is a whole story in itself. When Dewey first started sneezing, I figured there was a trip to the vet in the near future. I scouted around online and found a suitable carrier available at Petco and went to check it out. Most cat carriers would be too large for him, as he's dwarf-sized, and I didn't want to have him rattling around in it because that might be infinitely scarier for him than the already terrifying experience of being trapped inside a dark animal carrier against one's will. I wanted it to be fairly soft, so he'd be comfortable, and it needed to be in an appropriate size. Unlike most bags made for carrying dogs, it needed to have a door which opened on the side, allowing the rabbit to hop inside rather than having to be picked up and dropped inside. Anyone who's ever held an angry, jumpy rabbit will know how much angrier and jumpy it will get as it nears the ground and thinks it can secure its own escape by whatever means necessary. And unlike a dog-tote, there can be no spaces out of which the animal can pop its little head and survey the outside world; a bunny would make better use of that space and fling its little body into the air in its effort to get away. The only solution to my rabbit-carrying problem: an unspeakably hideous, rainbow-colored ferret-carrying piece of junk.
Observe, if you will...
WTF?!
Yeah, but given that this was all Petco had to offer me, I went for it. People unabashedly stared and JUDGED. Whatever. I care more about my rabbit than about the opinions of douche-y people who judge others based on the attractiveness of their pet-carrying devices.
Since purchasing the carrier, I'd been putting it out periodically for Dewey to explore in hopes that he'd eventually come to like it. After carrying him around the arctic city all day, I'm sure he feels less warmly towards it now than he previously did but for a while he seemed to genuinely like it. Now, of course, he hopes it burns in Hell but -- hey -- them's the breaks, bunny rabbit.
His anger over the gate blocking his way into the living room and the ominous (and hideous) pet-carrier placed on the floor behind him upset Dewey further. I continued to stuff treats into the carrier, thinking I'd eventually win him over and -- to his dismay -- eventually it worked. He got his little body close enough for me to shove him by the butt inside and zip the door behind him shut. I stood up, grabbed my coat and bag and ran outside to get a cab. Getting him into the carrier had taken longer than expected and I didn't want to miss the appointment. Getting a cab seemed to take even longer, as every sissy-pants in the city attempted to get a cab as well -- even after it became obvious that I was struggling with some kind of furious animal in a clown car of a pet carrier. Eventually, I grabbed a cab and headed down to the vet.
As soon as I walked into the animal medical center, I felt happier about the world. Everyone in the place seemed pleasantly baffled by the rainbow-colored thing I was carrying and, knowing it contained an animal, they were all eager to look at him. He was, of course, pretty terrified to be gawked at like this but not nearly as terrified as he was outside where it was loud, cold, and completely nuts. The driver seemed to take us through some kind of Dukes of Hazzard-like vehicular nightmare; at any moment there, I thought we might launch ourselves off a ramp and over a cop car. Yehaw! Inside the vet's waiting room, all we had to fear were... well, pretty much every other animal there. Even the limping, overweight terrier belonging to the woman sitting across from me wanted a piece of my bunny. And who could blame him? My bunny is a total cutie! All of the security guards were enchanted by my terrified rabbit in its Technicolor dream ferret carrier.
The vet saw me not long after we arrived, and to my dismay uttered something to another vet about "the one that died." Uh... yikes. I followed her into an exam room, where we were joined by a small army of vets-in-training. I explained the situation to the lovely lady vet and at her request, opened the carrier. I did, and unzipped the side of the carrier to reveal Dewey's furry little butt. The studio audience laughed. The vets-in-training laughed. The vet laughed. Dewey peeked around himself and, if he could have, would have shrugged. That's my bunny, a born comedian.
He hopped out, now on his best behavior despite his ferocity at the apartment. He even stood up on his hind legs and charmed everyone wearing a white coat and name tag. I just rolled my eyes. Dewey is, evidently, a bit of a flirt. He sat on the vet's clipboard. He strained to peek over the edge of the exam table as if ready to jump. He glanced at each of the vets-in-training and they all (even the boy) went, "Awww!" After his exam, the Allison Janney-like vet announced that he was very, very cute. All of the attention went to his head and he hopped back inside the carrier without putting up a fight. The vet and her comrades took him out for some blood work and I took a seat beside some elderly cat-owners. The waiting room had an industrial ickiness about it, a big downgrade after our last vet experience in which I waited in an entirely too-posh room across from a very handsome-looking Joan Allen with my rabbit in a shoe box. Not yet owning a weird-looking ferret container, I stuck my baby bunny in a New Balance shoe box. Joan Allen smiled politely. I died a little bit inside.
When Dewey was returned to me, I paid for the visit and was told where to pick up his prescription. I made my way over the two or three blocks to the mom-and-pop pharmacy used by the vet. Being on the Upper East Side, it was filled with Botoxed women who have nothing better to do with their days than to wonder about their various (and possibly imagined) aches and pains. I waited in line at the pharmacy desk surrounded by plump, vaguely surprised looking women who resembled Zsa Zsa Gabor. They were all quite curious about my hideous container and whatever was in it pitching a fit.
"It's a rabbit," I said with a polite smile to the woman nearest to me. She stared at me with the emptiness of a woman who is rarely spoken to, and with seemingly no awareness of the fact that she happened to be wearing a rabbit fur hat.
She nodded, eventually, and returned my smile. "A rabbit!"
"Yes," I said, lifting the carrier for her to get a look. Dewey peered out at her with his default expression of sheer panic. "A rabbit."
"How exotic," she said in a dreamy, drugged-up voice. I laughed and glanced away, but noticed that Zsa Zsa continued to stare at close range. She nodded again, to which I smiled.
"He's sick?" Zsa Zsa #2 asked, turning away from the counter while in the middle of her transaction. The pharmacist glared at me for causing this disruption.
Zsa Zsa #1 continued to stare. "I love your eyes, dear." She said from another planet entirely.
"Thank you." I smiled and directed my attention to the rest of the Gabors. "He's got a cold." I announced to the ladies, who were all apparently charmed by the idea of a rabbit blowing his nose into a wee little hankie. Cold, as in, respiratory infection -- whatever. These women probably put Fancy Feast into a bowl every night for a stuffed cat whose time among the living ceased many years ago. "I'm picking up some medicine for him." I added, gesturing to the pharmacy counter, which is where I aimed to be ASAP. God willing!
Zsa Zsa #2 smiled, oblivious to the druggist behind the counter.
This continued for several minutes before I was served by a surly, exceptionally loud woman. I was told to wait 15 - 20 minutes for my prescription. I found a spot to stand with my rabbit carrier, which was actually quite a feat considering how cramped the little store was and how many Zsa Zsas there were clogging up the already scarce floor space. Eventually, my prescription was ready.
"Dewey?" The pharmacist screamed. We'd already gone through a Vaudevillian-style routine in which she asked "Name," I gave mine, and she assumed the rabbit was named "Ashley." When I explained that the rabbit's name was "Dewey," she stared at me like I said it was, "Tickity-Boo, Skuttle-Whomp III, Esquire." What does it matter anyway? It's not like the rabbit is going to whip out his Amex and pay for the drugs himself. Why does the name matter? And why does everyone think "Dewey" is such a weird name? He's named after a paper towel roll that Meatwad plays with on ATHF, but that means really nothing to 99% of the world (particularly the part which lives in Boston). Just give me the goddamned drugs!
Armed with my prescription, my bag, my rabbit and my rage, I shook off the Gabor sisters and tried to get a cab home. I couldn't subject my little buddy to the noise of the subway and I wanted to get him out of the cold fast, so a cab was really the only choice. Eventually, I got a cab but not before witnessing some acts of extreme wimpiness.
Can I be frank? No man should ever step around a slushy snow puddle like a girl. I mean, really. If I were a man, I'd ask myself a very simple question before doing something that idiotic -- "Would Michael Corleone do this?" No? Good, then don't, sissy-pants.
I patiently waited in various piles of snow as lesser men danced around like fools, blocking access to the street by using the least slushy paths possible. Eventually, I was able to get into the street and secure a cab. I even made a point of stepping into a 1" deep puddle like a man's man just because I knew it would horrify the sissy standing nearest to me; his eyes widened and he glanced away because despite my wee, little girl frame, he saw that I was more of a man than he'd ever be. Then I head butted him, just for good measure. No, I didn't, but I should have.
Instead, I hopped in a cab and returned home. I overtipped as usual, and ran upstairs with my bunny. I plopped him back on the kitchen floor and opened the carrier door.
He hesitated.
I removed the babygate.
He came out and thumped as he ran into the living room, which is his way of flipping me the bird.
I love you, too, Dewey.
Posted by ashley at February 15, 2007 01:33 PM
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