visitation.

I haven't personally told many people about Lapa's passing ... except, well, YOU, the entire Internet. But one of the few friends I did tell had some really comforting words for me, mostly based on the fact that she's always had companion animals (the word pets hardly covers it for her or me) and she's had them "pass on" before. She made the point that it is strange but true that it is not really socially acceptable to deeply mourn the passing of a pet. And anyone who has not lived in close proximity for years with an animal--lived with holding its life in your hands as not a chore but an delicate honor that one never quite deserves--will probably not understand the deep grief that results in such a loss. But I am here to lay it out for you, Internet. It is not like having a plant die . . . it is closer to what I imagine it'd be like to lose a close friend or have your child die.

If you haven't had that kind of bond with an animal, you are probably judging me right now. You're perhaps rolling your eyes, or calling me overly dramatic. And in truth I have little experience with losing someones close to me: I haven't any children and all my best friends are thankfully absolutely bursting with vitality. But to say that animals do not deserve that level of grieving is pure bullshit.

I've actually dreaded this day for almost as long as I've lived with Lapa. I remember the one thing making me hesitate with such an impulse buy on that miserably hot day in July 2003 was the knowledge that I would love this animal, that he would come to mean something to me (though at the time I had no idea how much), and that someday he would die. Author Lee Harrington wrote of such premature dread in her book Rex and the City*: "I wept over the fact that Rex would someday die. That he would be snatched away and that I wouldn't get to say goodbye to him. All this love, all this perfect love, would be taken away. I wrapped my arms around Rex's neck and clung to him, hugging him too tightly, my face buried in his fur. He seemed confused by my outburst, but still, he stayed. He seemed to recognize that his job was to absorb my pain, so he licked and licked my face. I sobbed until I was depleted, and silent, and then I heard Rex's heartbeat, just on the other side of my cheek. It was a solid heartbeat, and it seemed to tell me: Don't be sad. I am here with you now. We are together" (p. 141). (Clearly Lee Harrington gets "it.")

I have been giving myself the time to grieve: crying when I need to, looking at old pictures, writing about old memories and lessons learned, and so forth. Monday evening Dave and I stayed in, he sifted through old pictures and played with photoshopping them into collages and such, and I curled in our old papasan in the bedroom, staring at Lapa's cage, which we hadn't yet had the heart to clean and throw away. Dave eventually came into the room to check on me, and spooned me on the bed, when I felt his body still and quiet. What is that noise? he whispered. I quieted and heard it as well. It was a kind of rattling noise, faint but definite, a noise exactly the same as Lapa lapping vigorously at his water bottle. Exactly. And because we live in a building that is supposedly pet free, as far as we know, our neighbors do not have pets. And it is a very clean, new building, which pretty much ruled out rats, besides the fact that any rats would not likely be carrying around their own water bottles. After we acknowledged it, the sound stopped.

For one brief moment, it seemed possible to me that Lapa was actually somewhere in the room, that he wasn't dead, that instead he was just hiding. That we actually had not buried his body on a ridge late the night before. My self lifted with hope for that moment, even as I knew it couldn't be true. Then I considered the implications. How could Dave and I both hear a noise so familiar to us (this was what lulled us to sleep at night, as rabbits are nocturnal animals) that simply was not possible?

That little noise was all it took to start me crying again like we had just found his body. My buddy, my baby, my friend, my Lapa, he was gone. And perhaps that was his spirit lingering, but I was unsure whether it was lingering out of anger or trying to let us know he was okay. Was he blaming his demise on us? Was he forgiving us? Or are we both just so out of our heads with grief we're hearing noises and attributing them to bunny spirits?

Laugh all you want, Internet. Just get back to me when your beloved fuzzball passes on. I'll be taking apologies.

* Rex and the City: A Woman, a Man, and a Dysfunctional Dog. Lee Harrington. New York: Random House.