elegy in prose.

LAPA. (1) Ridge, slope, steep side of a ravine; ridged. (2) Overactive, energetic, mischevious; gamboling and cavorting, as a young animal; to roughhouse.

LĀPAKI. (1) Rabbit, hare.

Dave and I got back from New York sunday evening. I was going to write about what it was like to return to New York, about the beautiful wedding we attended in NY, about seeing Wife again, and about ideas I had for another opera libretto, but NONE of it matters. It all pales beside what came next. Lapa died.

Lapa died and it was our fault. Lapa died and it was his own fault. Lapa died and it was someone else's fault, or some other else's, or some other other else's. But Lapa died and it was not peaceful or restful and he was alone and scared and I'm sure he wanted us to rescue him and we were not there to do so. Lapa died and he trusted us and his little life was in our hands. Lapa died alone and scared, and now it is me who is alone and sad. And scared and tormented and guilty and upset and bewildered and depressed and angry and hurt and broken.

But I don't want to talk about his death, so I will talk about his life.

He was my buddy for so long. Since July 2003, when I impulse-bought him from a pet store in Queens. I thought I had bought a cute, furry, quiet pet that would be the glue to cement Dave to my side forever. Instead, it was the beginning of an end: Dave would leave me that October to move back to Los Angeles. But for a while Lapa lived with Dave, Laura, Andrew, and I in Astoria. His home was a pet carrier connected to a file cube for a few weeks; we then upgraded him to a puppy cage, which was much larger. Lapa was much more than I had bargained for: he was stubborn, he managed to fit himself everywhere he wasn't supposed to go, and he was not affectionate. He didn't want to be held, or picked up, or petted. He was interested in us when we gave him food. I spent much of those first few weeks with him regretting my impulse buy and wondering why our rabbit was "broken." Weren't they supposed to cuddle with you? Weren't they supposed to be passive and quiet and docile? I remember one evening in particular where I spent a half hour trying to coax him out from under the bed so I could recage him and go to a party. He wouldn't come out for anything and I was near tears in frustration. Of course, the minute I wasn't trying to coax or chase him out, he came out on his own accord, looking mighty pleased with himself. They say in the early months of pet ownership, you are training or house-breaking the animal, but really it is often the other way around. The animal is retraining you to think past stereotypes of pets and to learn to treat him as a creature whose life was as important as your own, if perhaps shorter, more precarious, and dependent. In these weeks and months, I learned to be patient, to let him come to me, and to try to understand him via bunny behavior manuals on the www.

Once Dave had gone, it was Lapa and I alone together. Lapa probably took more care of me than the other way around. I'd drag myself to and from work, around the city, out with friends, to parties, but mostly I'd let Lapa out to play and his exuberance and joyful bunnyness and kicks and dancing would make me smile. He'd tire out and flop down by a wall, and then I'd pet him--for he permitted this now--run my hands across his sleek little body to feel his warm undersides heaving with breath and bury my face in his fur to dry my tears. I'd pet him and I'd nuzzle him and I'd kiss his little nose and the top of his head. And he, for his part, would let me. He saw me through that and then the next year it was me in the role of caretaker: he had his big surgery of 2004. He had to have a large abcess removed from his face. This was a $500 surgery for a $25 rabbit, and it was of course worth every last cent. I learned that he was more than just a cute bundle of fur, I learned to haul him on the subway to the UWS to his fancy vet, I even had to learn to calm him with my hands and then stick him with a vaccine in the back of his neck (a traumatic experience that mostly startled him but made me cry). Then due to my prolonged absence to Hawai'i, Lapa moved to live in Los Angeles with Dave. He became so tame that Dave would let him stay out of his cage all night, and Lapa would snuggle next to him on the bed. Lapa shared Dave's loneliness as well. And then Lapa was there when we finally got to move into our first apartment together, December 2005, in Pacifica. Lapa dealt with my homesickness and my grief surrounding the move almost as thoroughly as Dave had to. He was our buddy, our baby, our confidant, our friend. And we finally just celebrated our wedding, the endurance of our love, which may not have been possible without Lapa's patience and love and without Delta Airlines, and now before we know it, Lapa is gone.

Dave said that maybe that was the "purpose" of Lapa's life. That in death, his life had meaning because he kept us together. Couples often buy pets because they're avoiding a break-up or practicing for getting married and having kids; more often than not, co-parenting of a pet leads to a breakup rather than increased stability. But in our case, Lapa was our glue. We were united in our custody of him and love for him, which was just one factor of many that made it impossible--miserable and lonely as I was, open relationships and long distance be damned--to say goodbye to David. But Dave's suggestion--that Lapa's life served a purpose for us--is something with which I adamantly disagree. Lapa's life had purpose because it was his life. His life had meaning by him being himself. He was his life outside of and independent of any meaning we ascertained from "having" him. He may have been smaller and more delicate, and he may have had a shorter lifespan, but his life was every bit as important as either of ours . . . just because he, Lapa von Shimose Poe, lived it.

He had special relationships with us each individually. With Dave, there was complete and utter trust. When Lapa wanted to feel safe or get some quality "pets" in, he would go to Dave. Dave made him feel safe, and relaxed, and blissed out. But, as Dave noted, Lapa was playful with me. He would follow me around the apartment like a puppy. I'll always remember that feeling, that eagerness, a bunny underfoot. He wanted to be where I was. He played with me. He would run circles around me and hide behind my back. We would chase each other. I'd kiss his head and make happy bunny munching/tooth grinding noises, and he would make them back at me. I'd go down on all fours and crawl around on my knees for him. I'd pet his flushed ears after he'd pranced around the room. I'd praise him for jumping on the bed, for jumping off the bed, for dancing, for running, for eating, for flopping down, and I'd feed him far more treats than he should have had.

I LOVED HIM. I ADORED HIM. And I hope he knew that because it is too late to tell him now. I miss him so much. He was my companion. He made me feel less alone in this apartment, this working from home business. He was the mascot, the guardian, the very embodied spirit of our home, and you could feel his happy energy in the apartment even as you unlocked the front door. He never held a grudge, never sulked because we didn't play with him long enough. The minute we came in the apartment he would gnaw on the bars of his cage, wanting to be with us. He was always glad to see us. He really loved and really trusted us.

We held the funeral Sunday evening. Mind you, it was past midnight and we had just gotten off the plane, but it had to be done. Dave wrapped our poor boy in some of his soft fleecy blankets and the Hawaiian print cloth that used to cover his cage top. Dave placed Lapa gently in a box. I gathered a bag of soil, a flower, spoons for digging, and a houseplant to replant near his grave. I wrote this note to him:

Dear Lapa, I am so sorry. We loved you and you were our baby, our buddy, and our solace. I wish we'd taken much better care of you. All you ever gave us was love and I'm so sorry you died alone and scared. We love you and we'll never forget you.

We three got into the car on last time: Dave, me, and Lapa's little body. I brought an entire box of Kleenex. I sniffled and cried and sobbed our whole way to the lookout north of the Golden Gate bridge, where we'd taken those gorgeous pictures a week or so back. It was cold and misty-rainy. We picked a spot off the path people walk, in a clearing between bushes, with a spectacular view, among the grasses and hills and the wild free air. We dug in with our spoons, leaving his body warm in the blankets, in the box, in the car. When the hole was deep enough, Dave laid Lapa down gently, blankets and all. Dave had brought a few of his favorite toys and the rest of his yougurt treats, and we arranged them carefully. We laid my note and a single callalilly on top of the mound. We gazed, we reminisced, we shivered in the cold, and then we gently filled the hole with dirt. We hoped that he'd lay at peace there in the wild, on the ridge of that mountain, as his name implies. We guessed the ridge would be better than the San Mateo Japanese gardens, Golden Gate park, or the Palace of Fine Arts where the dogs of San Francisco might dig up his body and disturb his peace. We covered him as much as we could with the dirt we'd dug up and the soil we brought from home. We covered him and covered him and we planted the callalily plant right next to his grave.

May he lay in peace now as he did not in death. May his spirit enjoy the wild as his body was unable to in life. May he already be in bunny heaven, if there is such a place, and there may he know how deeply he was loved, how much he changed our lives, how we will never forget him, and how much we appreciate the gift of his spirit and presence in our lives. And may he forgive us for failing him.

R.I.P.

Lapa von Shimose Poe

December 2003-August 2007