the tribute continues.

Awww, Wife wrote a wonderful R.I.P. for the little guy.

(But he so wasn't obese!)

sweetest taboo.

KARA'S CUPCAKES

3249 Scott St. @ Lombard
415 563-CAKE
http://www.karascupcakes.com/
(second location at Ghiradelli Square)

Just to prove that I can still write about things other than my beloved rabbit, I decided to write about the cupcakes we ate on the way up to visit his grave. The Marina shop is little, cute, and infused with pink; they serve organic coffee and milk with the cupcakes made from ingredients that are all local and almost entirely organic. There, doesn't that make you feel better? They're almost good for you! They come in a startling array of flavors including, but not limited to, chocolate with chocolate frosting, vanilla with vanilla frosting, chocolate with vanilla frosting, vanilla with chocolate frosting, vanilla with vanilla buttercream frosting, chocolate with chocolate buttercream frosting, and chocolate filled with caramel and topped with chocolate frosting. They also have such exotics as passion fruit, meyer lemon, coconut, and carrot cake. That said, beware those without a sweet tooth: the "filled" cupcakes (passion fruit, meyer lemon, banana caramel, and fleur de sel) unquestionably crossed the line already being "toed" to "too sweet." But they are definitely worth a try, especially when accompanied by a cup of organic joe to wash down the sweet stuff.

in memoriam.

The cuddle bug.

(a.k.a. how could I not love a man that a rabbit so intrinsically trusted?)

My brat.

(This was mostly how he looked: insolent, stubborn, and incredibly cute. And it worked:

He always got his way with us.)

The handsome guy.

(He was a dwarf Silver Marten, we think, but it's kind of hard to be sure. The pet store we bought him from--before we knew better, that we should have adopted from a shelter--didn't even know if he was a boy or girl, nevermind his definite age or breed. This is yet another reason why shelters are inherently better.)

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.

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