Named after Winston Churchill for the perfect scowl he gave you when you got a bit cheeky and handled him more than he cared for, I’ve been blessed to count him as my friend and companion for 9 years. He left us today (in 2019) and he has deeply bonded himself to my soul. After decades of living with pet carnivores, I’ve been delighted to be exposed to his feisty, stubborn, bottom-of-the-food chain, pragmatic approach to life. Living every moment as if you’re about to be eaten is surprisingly liberating.

His momma, sister, and he were dumped off in a cardboard box unceremoniously in the middle of the night at the door of Rabbit Haven, the rabbit rescue center in Gig Harbor, Washington, dehydrated and half starved to death. They were lovingly brought back to health and we decided to adopt all of them. Being Angora rabbits, Inga figured she could use their fur to make Angora yarn while giving them a good home. We added a fourth Angora, Freya, and got to work. With Angora yarn going for $100 per ounce, I had visions of quitting my day job and being a rabbit wrangler but it was not to be. While Rosie, the momma rabbit, and Freya had excellent fur, the babies were not pure bred Angoras and didn’t have suitable coats.

Oh well, I continued my corporate chores and we enjoyed having bunnies to care for. I really loved putting the dogs away and letting the lagomorphs loose in the dog yard while I worked on my laptop and smoked cigars. After years of rescued dogs and cats, I was truly dumbfounded by the dominance games and ninja moves I observed as they sorted out the pecking order, at least among the 3 females, as in lots of mounting and mock humping at both ends! Really? I thought dogs were bad. Jeez! Winston, the sole male, was super mellow and stayed out of the drama. Unfortunately, the females died off over time leaving just him. We were horribly dismayed being used to the longevity of cats and dogs but we learned this is normal. Well that sucks, right? So it was just Winston and me hanging out in the dog yard smoking cigars. I worried about him being lonely but Mr. Mellow seemed to be utterly unperturbed by it all and quite content to hang out with me while savoring the breeze gently blowing through his fur. 

I was always careful to keep Winston separated from the dogs, especially Gracie, our feral Formosan Mountain Dog, a type of hunting dog used in packs to bring down wild boar, who was rescued as a puppy out of a talus slope on the beach in Taiwan. I figured Robbie, our 75 lb. certified therapy sled dog, would be okay with Winston but I didn’t want to risk it with Gracie in case her hunting instincts kicked in. After all, the occasional rat who got caught sneaking in the dog yard at night to snack on dog poop would be found the next morning with a cleanly broken neck. Well, despite my best efforts, both Gracie and Robbie get past me one afternoon and run right for Winston. Predictably, Robbie is scampering up to him with his “Hey little buddy, let’s play!” body language but Gracie charges him like a guided missile. I stand on the porch thundering profanities about how I am going to break her neck if she hurts him but to no avail. She races up, stops on a dime, gently pushes him over with her nose, and stands over him smiling a toothy coyote grin. Tag, you’re it and he’s lying on his side with an expression of “Really? Is this necessary?”. Gracie: “Yup, it is. Low man on totem pole. Just making sure you know it, rabbit.” Okay, I can breathe again. My beloved rabbit is unharmed and I don’t have to wring my daughter’s neck. Whew! Going forward, the four of us do yard time in complete harmony.

The years go by and I spend less and less time with Winston in the side yard as my job demands more of my time and energy, my chronic pain increases, and I take refuge in the Smokehouse Man Cave garden shed I have installed in the backyard due to the wet, chilly Seattle weather which means he spends more and more time in his big crate in the laundry room. It bothers me and do I get him out now and then, but it’s not enough to assuage my guilt. I finally get a chance to remedy this when we put the house in Seattle on the market and we buy a house in Tucson, Arizona. I head down in early November to occupy the new place and I bring Gracie, Winston, and Maggie, our cat, with me while Inga and Robbie stay behind to sell the house. Working from home and having a perfect, enclosed back yard and a delightfully conducive climate for toiling out on the back patio, I let Winston out each morning as I begin work to spend the entire day. With canine consistency, Gracie noses him him over every day, first thing, and then cheerfully hangs out with us. Winston and I both respond with “whatever” eye rolls. He is now quite ancient in bunny years. He recovers from being cooped up in a crate and savors being free. He hops here and there, nibbles on this and that, and exudes contentment. The hole in my heart is healed and I treasure being able to share this with him while my scarred up spine soaks up the therapeutic dry heat. Cigars are smoked, money is earned, and every day Winston gets out here is a gift. 

My brother, Eric, a surgeon, gets out his tools and trims all the mats off Winston. He looks positively sporty. His hopping improves and now includes occasional zoomies. We love watching him traverse the yard and marvel at how he is somehow always undercover in the Trumpet vines when the neighborhood Cooper’s Hawk does a reconnaissance pass over the yard. One day, the hawk lands on the wall and takes a good look around the yard. I’m sitting opposite him on the patio and in my sternest voice, I say, “Hey, don’t even think about it, bird brain!” He stops scanning, makes eye contact, gives me some attitude, and flies off. After that, he starts doing low level passes, a foot off the deck through the yard, and on one particular day, as he comes over the back gate, he flies down right over Gracie’s dozing head. She is instantly on her feet and chasing him while snapping at his tail feathers, inches away, the entire length of the yard. The bird and I make eye contact as he flies past me sitting at my table and I can see the thought bubble over his head. “Shit! The rabbit has a ninja bodyguard! Less hazardous prey awaits elsewhere!” Damn straight, velociraptor! He never returns.

Time goes by and one day, Winston flops over on his side and can’t get back on his feet. Gracie races over and noses him while glancing back at me with a very concerned look on her face. I set my laptop down, take off my wireless headset, and set down my cigar to go assist. I put him back on his feet and he gives me a look of gratitude. It starts happening more and more and Eric and I are thinking the years are finally catching up to Winston. Inga comes down to join us from Seattle and he has a full blow seizure in front of her, eyes rolled back in his head and twitching like crazy. She cradles him until he comes to and now we know his days are numbered. But Winston is no longer bothered by his hind legs giving out and he stops fighting it, laying on his side looking quite content to be outside in the lovely air. So we stop fretting and care for him as best we can.

A couple of weeks ago, his back legs stop working entirely and his life as a desert hare comes to an end. In a matter of days, he can’t sit upright and he stops drinking water and eating. Not even his favorite bunny snacks that his Aunt Becky got him for Christmas interest him. Inga, Eric, and I say good bye to him on one particular night and I fully expect to be burying him in his beloved backyard come morning. Inga and I go to bed and meditate in order to reach out to him on a greater level. I count myself down and expand my consciousness. Winston appears before me, healthy and vibrant, the size of a golden retriever. I activate my heart chakra and envelop us both in divine Light and Love. We bask in the unconditional Love we share and I summon the tunnel of light that leads to the other side, the non-corporeal home we all come from. Rosie and Ivy, his mother and sister, appear at the mouth of the tunnel to guide him. He exudes happiness and rising into the air, he zooms off into the sky above us. My heart is filled with joy, fully expecting him to fly into the tunnel but no, he’s zips around exuberantly doing loops above the three of us. Okay, whatever. He’s fine and in good hands. He’s doing his victory lap before departing the physical realm and I’ve got to go to sleep. I have to work in the morning. I depart and drift off into sleep. 

I awake to the pre-dawn light streaming into the bedroom windows and I gird myself to the task of burying his lovely, little body into the hole I’ve prepared for him in the backyard. I get up with the dogs and emerge from the bedroom to find him in his crate sitting upright with perky ears. WTF? Off to work I go and Inga soon texts me that he’s eaten carrots and a stick of celery, drank some water and is now busily chewing up a cardboard tube. Apparently, last night’s energy work has renewed his zest for life. But he still can’t walk and increasingly, he does less and less. So we all get another chance to spend time with him and say goodbye. Today is he is gone. 

His ashes will go around his favorite mesquite tree in the backyard where they can nourish it and a part of him will always be where he found such joy late in life. 

I will never forget you my little angel and I am blessed by your stalwart companionship and the lessons about life you taught me. Take care and I’ll see you someday on the other side. — Scott Bruce Duncan */:-)