adventures in Brooklyn, vol. 11: the rabbit funeral

Earlier this year, I attended the funeral of a grumpy – but much-beloved – rabbit.

His name was Dutchie, and he belonged to my landlady. (Though one of the other tenants often affectionately referred to him as “The King,” and he certainly reigned as if it were true.) Dutchie lived on the landing between two floors in the main house, and I learned the hard way to arrive for rabbit-sitting duty armed with a carrot, an apple slice, or one of the rabbit cookies to which he was completely addicted – and to wear boots. He bit me more than once, simply for having the audacity to step into his territory to refill his food dish or fetch him fresh water. It didn’t matter to him one bit that someone was there to care for him; it was his landing, and how dare you approach.

I’m fairly certain that my landlady and the tenant who gave him his nickname were the only people this rabbit may have (possibly) genuinely liked. And yet, when the news came one rainy January morning that Dutchie had passed away, text messages came flooding in from family and former tenants, sharing fond(?) memories of The King and his impact on their lives. One of the tenants told her mom, who wrote about the time she’d come to visit, and how Dutchie would hop into her room every morning. She’d thought his diet rather strange, as the floor was often littered with little bits of plastic when he left. It was only a few days later, when she went to pack, that she discovered he’d eaten her suitcase handle.

Most of the family was out of town when Dutchie died, so when my landlady texted to say they were burying him in the backyard at such-and-such a time, if I wanted to come, I of course said I’d attend. She’d loved that rabbit, and I didn’t want her to have to do it alone. Her son came over to help, and I met them in the back yard as she carried the rabbit out, wrapped in a couple of bathroom hand towels in a cardboard box. (I wondered for a moment if that was meant to be his coffin, but no.) We debated the biodegradable nature of towels, and in the end, decided to bury him without them, on a bed of clean hay from his cage.

She laid him on the hay and put a carrot almost as big as the rabbit in the grave next to him, and the three of us stood around the hole on an appropriately grey day, looking at this little rabbit who had been so much larger than life for so much longer than rabbits usually live, and told stories. She read some of the texts from family and friends, and laughed a little through her tears. The entire experience was equal parts comical and touching.

Loss is a common human experience, and whether it’s a pet or a job or a loved one or an opportunity: loss is still loss. And to some degree, loss feels the same, regardless of what’s caused it. What a privilege it is to be invited and allowed to step into someone’s pain with them – to simply just be present with them in it.

I moved into the apartment in this big yellow house six years ago, thinking I’d stay for three months while I figured out where I really wanted to live in New York. Instead, I’ve met strangers who have become friends, and found a home away from home. Which just happened to come with a rabbit.