Today, April 15th, 2006, I was forced to say goodbye to Sir Martin Bunnicula Mortensen, the oddest rabbit I have ever known. We rescued him from a type of bunny concentration camp on Martin Luther King Day in the year of 2000. For at least four years, he had sat on six inches of his own waste, eating dry rolls and water which was replenished once per week. In the winter, he received snow. The cage was so terribly built that rats, raccoons, and all sorts of creatures could break in, often taking his fellow imprisoned rabbits and eating them in front of the cage. This was in my grandfather's back yard. When the maniacal, vicious dog that housed near this cage finally died, we rescued the last remaining rabbit. He was a white dwarf with black ears, paws, nose, and tail. Somehow, he managed red eyes. The day we brought him home, we began reading up on rabbits. They are not supposed to be able to make any noise except for a scream when something attacks them. The first time we tried to touch him, he proved the facts wrong. He grunted, sounding like an old man told by his wife to clean up a mess. We had him for 6 years, and he never once let us pet him until the day he passed away. He was having problems breathing, and as he lay panting in his cage, I placed my hand on his fur, and discovered for the first time that it was softer than anything I have ever felt. He turned only his head towards me, as if saying goodbye. Two hours later, he crawled inside the box attached to his cage, meant to protect him from wind. He died within five minutes. Although I never really knew him, saying goodbye hurt me more than saying goodbye to previously mentioned grandfather. I hope Martin encounters many graham crackers in the afterlife, as they were the only food that could coax him to within a foot of our hand.
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