L. M. Affrossman
A little tribute to a big life
As you may, or may not, know, Crandor-Dark Lord of the Universe was Sparsile Books’ house bunny. A Dutch dwarf with the heart of a lion. He once stood up to Sparsile’s MD (six foot one in his socks) and threatened him with all twelve inches of his warrior soul.
This is not to imply that Crandor was a rodent given only to the violent pleasures of warfare. He was both a passionate and caring lover. After a brief dalliance with a fetish for latex, which manifested itself in a need to hump every party balloon which entered the household, Crandor grew weary of his girlfriends exploding at the height of passion and focussed his enthusiasm on the great love of his life, a nylon panda almost the same size as himself. What followed was a steamy love affair, which often led to Crandor somersaulting straight into his water dish at the height of ecstasy then shaking himself off with an I meant to do that expression. The relationship lasted to the very day he died when, despite being in pain, he attempted a last, unsuccessful bid for bliss.
On the whole, he had a very happy life. His only real problem seemed to be his inability to accept that he was a rabbit. Nothing on earth could persuade him to eat hay. If left to his own devices, he stole slices of pizza and entire packets of chocolate biscuits. And nothing made him happier than the knowledge that some stupid human had just lost their treat.
One of his other great joys was terrorizing cats. He made one particularly timid feline’s life a misery and enjoyed every moment of the torment. Torment naturally did not end with cats. He was fond of pretending to be a yoyo, which meant he would demand cuddles only to demand to put down only to demand that he immediately be picked up for more cuddling. This could go on for hours and was a particularly good game if the hapless human at hand looked even remotely busy.
He was a great traveller, in defiance of what is known about bunnies. A new location, with an especially delicious carpet to chew, was next to heaven in Crandor’s book. But, most of all, he was an athletic sleeper, who couldn’t cross a sunbeam without collapsing, often needing to take an extra nap to recover from several hours of exhausting slumber.
There is a lesson to be learned from Crandor, and not simply that a stolen slice of pizza tastes better than one freely given. Live life to the full. Don’t waste a moment on regret. And if someone doesn’t give you the affection you feel you deserve, sink your teeth into their thigh.
Postscript:
When Crandor died, it was not a surprize. He had already exceeded the known maximum lifespan for his breed. In the last couple of days of his life he was a changed rabbit, who could neither eat nor drink. We did all the right things and all the wrong things. We took him to the vet, but then we paid for a ridiculously expensive test rather than have him put down. In the end we took him home knowing that his gut was blocked, and his chances of recovery were slim.
As the night wore on, his chances of recovery began looking increasingly anorexic until the moment came when he crawled under the chaise longue (where he had spent so many happy hours sleeping in sunbeams and chewing the silk cushions) and, after a short fit, he died. He just died.
In the hours that followed, I attempted bravery, but at the first possible opportunity I hid in the shower and wept into a towel helplessly, hopelessly and without dignity. My fur baby was gone. I would never hold him again or inhale his funny little musty scent. My carpets and my heart are full of holes.
I feel embarrassed to be so emotional over something that many people would have considered to be little more than dinner. But then I think of all the people who have told me that they hope that their loved ones aren’t too upset when they die. Well, I don’t agree. I hope when I die there is a room full of people sobbing their guts out, because grief is the measure of how deeply we are loved, and if anyone is as sorry that I have gone as I am over Crandor’s loss, then I will have lived.