The way of the rabbit

Surgery should be performed on rabbits only as a last resort, because rabbits, the vet told me, are less likely than other domesticated animals to survive general anaesthesia. It’s believed this is because rabbits lack the requisite will to live.

I was involved with a French lop at the time, big as a small dog and docile as a desert tortoise, Claudette by name, and the thought of her sniffing through the veil en route to a flower or a hole seemed neither tragic nor crazy, but wise, that deep, ineffable animal wisdom we cashed in for stone tools and fire.

I’ve tried to imagine various situations that might force me to choose some other life over mine and have found myself similarly lacking. Which is to say, I’d hop the veil myself without much ado. So it goes.

When and why I came to be this way, how the switch got flipped from survive-at-all-cost to path of least resistance, I can’t say, but please understand. It’s not that I want to die. I’m perfectly healthy, after all. I lead a comfortable, stress-free, relatively interesting, not infrequently satisfying, sometimes genuinely rewarding life. I have vocations and avocations and friends, the best one of which sleeps beside me in my nicely appointed, auspiciously located little flat. My life is good, in other words. 90th percentile good. Certainly nothing anybody would want to end or relinquish or flee.

Yet I’m ready to let it go. Now or later. Whichever. Just give me a moment to arrange my affairs, Claudette, and I’ll be right with you. Meanwhile, please say hello to Ginger.

Peace.