Floppy

During the summer of my fourth year of life, my parents entrusted me with the responsibility of caring for a fully grown rabbit.

I named him Floppy.

Prior to this, I had acquired an obsessive fondness for all things fluffy and fat. The past two Halloweens of my existence had been spent dressed up as a rabbit.

I had dedicated numerous "free times" in my kindergarten classes to sketching various drawings of disfigured rabbits.

I had also devoted countless Saturday mornings camped out behind the patio door of our house, awaiting a glimpse of any wild rabbits that happened to be hopping through the backyard.

Given the circumstances, you could imagine how ecstatic I was when my mother and father surprised me with a fluffy, fat, grey rabbit for my fourth Birthday.

Each morning, I would engage Floppy in meaningful conversation, while poking a carrot through the thin bars of his cage.

We were inseparable that summer.

However, there was one problem. Floppy possessed a lack of enthusiasm when it came to most pet-related activities. All he did was sit in his cage all day, continuously sniffing and twitching his tiny nose on an infinite loop while blinking his eyes. He also demonstrated the inability to fetch a ball, and never listened to any of my commands.

You see, at the age of four, my capacity for pet-care knowledge was limited to the standard needs of "dogs" "cats" and "babies." Cartoons and TV had taught me that cats landed on their feet, dogs should be walked with leashes, and babies should be lifted by their armpits. I knew that Floppy was a rabbit, but in my mind, I was convinced that he wanted to be treated like a cat, dog, or baby. He just needed the right encouragement from me in order to tap into his inner cat-dog-baby.

Floppy lived in our living room. For several months, I would take him out of his cage, and down to our basement where I would impose a series of self-made training methods on him.

First I would start with his cat training.

While standing at the top of the stairs to the basement, I would hurl him over the steps, in an attempt to teach him how to land on his feet by yelling "LAND ON YOUR FEET, FLOPPY!" Time and time again, I watched him land onto the marble floor, stomach first.

He failed this task several times, but I refused to give up on him.

Next came his dog training. I made a leash from a hair elastic. I would place the loop of the elastic securely around his neck, while proceeding to drag him around the basement in an attempt to walk him.

He wasn't good at this task either.

He would just sit there staring at me, as still as a rock, while his eyes began turning red and watering uncontrollably.

It was clear that Floppy was a slow learner, but I still refused to give up on him.

Last, would come his baby training. To reward him for all his hard work, I would grasp him by his armpits and lift him into the air, swinging him from left to right while attempting to simultaneously hug him.

                  
Time and time again, Floppy would try to escape my grasp by scratching his way out of my arms. After several months of this, my arms began to resemble those of a Heroine addict's.

Floppy was my drug.

But, no matter how unenthusiastic he remained towards my efforts, I refused to quit him.

As the months rolled on, Floppy's cage began acquiring a foul smell. In other words, he pooped a lot. My family began to grow so repulsed by the smell that they had no choice but to relocate his cage from the living room to the garage.

One morning, as I got up in preparation to bring him his morning carrot, my father approached me with terrible news:

Floppy had ran away.

I was devastated.

It was the first time in my life that I had experienced loss. For several weeks after the incident, I would sit behind the patio door, watching the backyard in the hope that Floppy would one day return. But he never did.  

I eventually came to terms with the realization that I would never see Floppy again. I told myself that it was probably for the best, as he probably just wanted to live his life as a wild rabbit and not a caged cat-dog-baby. There was also the possibility that he may have been eaten by a wolf, but I preferred to remain positive.

The acceptance of this idea brought me some peace, and I eventually learned to live again.

Plus, my father bought me some fish.


In life, we may not realize that a specific action towards someone we love, no matter how good-intentioned it may be, could sometimes be hurting that person instead of helping them.

A rabbit is not a dog -it is what it is -just as a person is who they are.

Love others for who they are.

Have a nice day.

xo Mel