Pat the Bunny
by Rae 7/2008
I'm
being stared at by a bunny.
I guess
you wouldn't think a downtown Bay City cop would ever find himself in a
situation in which he'd say that. But you just never know around here. There's
been kittens, and that damn Louise . . . she's still around, believe it or not,
but I ain't seen her for a while. Minnie's got pictures of her all over her
desk. Calls her Starsky's Folly whenever she knows I'm near enough to hear her.
Louise
is better off with Minnie. I know that. But sometimes I'd like to have a pet.
Someone who's always there, always likes you even when you look like shit and
smell even worse. Who'll let you sit there for hours and pet 'em, and not have
to go for a run or get up and go to work, or step out for some more goat's milk
or . . . whatever.
And
don't even talk to me about Ignatius. He saved my life, so just leave him out
of this, okay?
We
shoulda kept that spotted dog. Well, we probably would have, but he
disappeared, you know? He was there with us at Huggy's, and then someone made
some toast to something and when I went to pat him again, he was just gone.
Hutch said maybe he was never really there, just an aperitif. No, that ain't
the right word . . . appar—tition.
So I'm
thinking, if I can just move maybe three inches forward, I could get ahold of
this bunny, take him home. Unless he's some kind of figment, too. Which is
entirely possible.
"Stay
with me, buddy, okay?"
"Sure.
Your place or mine?"
Hutch's
place don't allow pets. Maybe that's why he has so many plants. Maybe they're a
representation of a suppressed need to take care of small helpless things. Or
is it repressed?
I'll look it up. Later.
I think
he just laughed. That's probably a good sign.
Except
I don't think he really understands. Maybe I should say it again.
"Sure,"
I start to say, but that's all I can manage.
"Don't
talk, Starsky. You'll be okay. I'm right here."
"Get
the bunny, Hutch."
Hey,
that's good. Bunny? Hutch? I want to laugh but maybe now isn't a good time.
"Bunny?"
I feel
his hand on the back of my head. Might be the only thing he can reach. Guess he
doesn't see the bunny.
He
thinks I'm delirious.
Shit.
Now I can't see it either. Oh wait, there it is. I think it's trapped, too, not
much space, but don't bunnies like that? Don't they like small enclosed places?
Can't
imagine why. I'm not too fond of them myself. Small spaces, I mean. Bunnies I
like.
I think
I smell smoke.
"Hutch.
I think I smell . . ."
But
he's not there. I know he won't leave us, so I tell the bunny not to worry.
Are
there people coming in? Yeah, lotta shouting and some swearing. I hope the
bunny isn't easily offended, but he's just sitting there, staring at me again.
One of his ears is floppy. Is it supposed to be like that?
"You
okay?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer. Not real talkative, I guess. I'm
glad he's here, though. I guess he likes me.
Jesus,
someone's pouring water all over us. The bunny's shaking his head. Then he
takes a few hops and gets under my arm where there's a little space. Pretty
smart, I'd say. I put my head down so he's completely covered. He makes a
little hot spot there, which is real nice because now the rest of me is freezing.
At
least I don't smell smoke anymore.
They're
trying to figure out what to do now. I can hear them talking real low, except
for Hutch. He's yelling at them.
"Hutch."
I don't think I've said it loud enough but he's right here, and his hand's on
my head again. Another nice warm spot. "Don't yell, okay?"
"Okay,"
he says, in that tone I like, the one makes me feel safe and covered,
protected.
Something
just got lifted off me. I can feel my legs.
God. I
can feel my legs.
"Starsky,
do you know you have a bunny under your chin?"
So I
say my little joke again, because I can feel my legs, and now's a good time to
laugh: "Take the bunny, Hutch."
I see
his big hands in front of my nose, and then the bunny's gone, and I feel a
little lonely.
"I
got him. He's okay." He didn't get it. I'll make sure he does, later. Get
it. If you know what I mean.
Something
just got shoved off my back. I take a deep breath. And another.
"Hey."
"Yeah,
buddy?"
"I'm
getting a pet. Tomorrow."
"You
can get anything you want, pal. Tomorrow."
Someone's
telling him to step back so they can work on me. But you know what? Now all
that heavy stuff is off me, I don't really feel too bad. I mighta got lucky for
once.
"Did
everyone get out?" Those kids . . .
"Everyone's
out, Starsky. The school's toast, but no one got hurt."
Those
new earthquake codes. Too little, too late. But so what? I'm getting a pet out
of the deal.
I try
to tell the paramedics I can walk but they won't let me. So I let them strap me
to a stretcher and manhandle me through all the mess and out the front doors.
Or what's left of the doors anyway. There's a big group of kids over there, all
big eyed and solemn. None of them are crying though.
Someone's
poking my arm.
"Thank
you for saving Peanuts," she says. Hey, she's got my pal the bunny in her
arms. I reach over and scratch behind his ears and he lifts up his nose. He
wants more but someone takes the kid by the shoulders and pulls her back a little.
"My
pleasure," I say. I want to tell her to take good care of him, but I'm
sure she will. He's better off with her, I guess. What do I know about taking
care of bunnies?
So I
gotta go through all the usual crap, but all my legs bend where they're supposed
to, and all my arms don't bend where they're not supposed to, and my neck
doesn't hurt, and all I need are three stitches on the top of my head.
I'm not
even shaky.
But my
clothes are soaked, and Someone didn't think of going over to my apartment and
getting me some dry ones, so I gotta borrow some OR scrubs. I think Hutch is
staring at my ass.
When we
get to my place I realize he's feeling a little guilty for some reason, because
he's being all attentive and making me sit and getting me a beer. Not
complaining. I like it when he does that.
I guess
a pet wouldn't be so accommodating. Probably expect me to take care of it even
if I'm hurtin'.
"What
can I do for you, Starsky?"
He must
be hurting, himself. You know, inside. I ought to let him do something so he'll
feel like he's in control. He needs that. I get it.
"Sit
down here," I say to him, and pat the sofa next to me.
He
stands over me for a second and makes my pulse pick back up again. Then he
smiles and sits down carefully, but way too far away. I reach over and pull him
down so his head's in my lap where I can pet it. I give him a little scratch
behind one of his ears and he lifts his nose up like he wants more of that. I know
what else he'd like, but for right now, I just want to touch him over and over.
"So
what kind of pet are you going to get?" He sounds a little drowsy. I don't
think he's about to get up and go for a run or anything.
I put
my arm over him and bend down so he's covered and warm, protected. I kiss his
eyes, his nose, his mouth.
"Guess
I already have one," I say. "And you don't even need a litter
box."
"I
have other needs, though," he says, "lots of other needs."
So I
forget all about the bunny.
And concentrate
on the Hutch.
Feed
the bunny: sevencatday@gmail.com