Felix Senis, Felis Senix

So I've been noticing that Harry isn't as alert as he once was. I'd attributed this to the fact that he's the cat equivalent of eleventy-seven human years, but lately I've begun to suspect he's lost his hearing. That would explain many things, including why his meows have become deafeningly loud. (If he's not deaf, he's probably wondering what crack I've smoked that makes me sneak up behind him and yell "HARRY!" at the top of my lungs.)

His ears don't even twitch, and after I've sat right by him calling his name with no response, I'll pat him and he'll startle. So.

It makes me a little bit sad, but I'll be less angry with him for waking me up at night with his smoke-alarm yowling.

Star Quality!

Today I returned to the model talent agency to review Leroy's photos. Truth be told, I was completely prepared to have them try to scam me for more money. I mean, they called to confirm that I'd be in; why so eager?

I was wrong. Tony Soprano got out the disk, we looked at it on a big screen, and the shots were gorgeous. The photographer (his name is Ken, not Cam, as it turns out; Tony mumbles a bit) shoots in high resolution, and you could see every whisker on Leroy.

"So you sign this, which states that you have paid for your shots and you give us permission to market Leroy," Tony said, pushing a paper at me. I steeled myself. "Ah-HA!" I thought, "Here it comes."

Nope. It was just what Tony'd described. I signed it. 

"And here is a release for you stating that you have full rights to these photos, in case you want reprints made and the photo place wants to see something that says you can do it."

This was too easy.

"So how do you make your money?" I asked.

"We make the photos viewable, so casting agents can review them, and we can also email them if we get a call for rabbits. Then if they use Leroy, we get a 10% commission."

That seemed really -- reasonable. And he was being a really nice, low-key guy.

"It's too bad  -- I had a job several weeks ago looking for a rabbit, and we had none. Leroy's our only one now."

I imagined phone calls saying, "The stretch hybrid limo will pick Leroy up at 6am."

I imagined being on Oprah! explaining how I went from unemployment to untold riches from being the guardian of the Bunny Luv environmentally-friendly diaper bunny.

Perhaps I should put in a call to Lloyd's of London.

Spa-Dee-Da Disco!

It all began last month, when Red Door held its quarterly Spa-Dee-Da Day at the shelter. This is a fundraising event, and it goes like this: People bring their rabbits to the shelter, where they register them and select from a  menu of spa treatments including nail trim, ear cleaning, grooming, massage and glamor shots. Each treatment has a cost; participants pay and their rabbits are brought to a side room that has been emptied. Blankets line the floor, and volunteers perform the services requested.

Each Spa-Dee-Da Day has a theme, and this one was disco. I was volunteering, but I brought the bunnies for some glamor shots. When I walked in, Donna Summer was singing "Bad Girls" from a boom box, and a table laden with snacks (for humans and rabbits) was against the wall. I signed in my bunnies and, since I'd be there all day, put them in a clean cage. This is where I'd adopted Leroy, and he had a J'accuse! look on his face. I could practically read his thoughts: "I don't chew things, I use the litterbox, I've tolerated this whack job of a mini-lop, I have been a good boy. So why am I back here?!?!?"

Their cage was in the main rabbit area, and many rabbit people associated with the shelter felt free to hold the rabbits up for adoption. At one point I came in to see a young woman snuggling Amie. I could see one wide eye staring at me from behind the woman's neck.

"Oh my GOD," her face said.

I laughed and told the woman that Amie was mine, but that she should keep holding her because it was good for her. 

The time came for the glamor shots, and I brought Amie and Leroy to the "set," which looked like a TV set for dolls.  As I approached, Toni, the President, came up to me. 

"I need you." She handed me a mirror and some powder. "I need cocaine."

"You got it," I said. I headed to the kitchen, where I put a line of powder (ground papaya tablets, actually -- good for rabbit digestion) in a line on the mirror and rolled up a dollar bill.

All in all, the rabbits did pretty well, considering there were hot lights and costumes.  Toni was assisting the photographer for most of the day, and kept telling people, "I'm the fluffer." I finally asked her whether she knew what that term really meant. 

Big grin. "Yep."

I love this place.

 Amie was more agitated than Leroy, and moved around quite a bit; at the end of the shoot she actually leaped onto my shoulder, then to the floor, drawing gasps from everyone around.

"She's fine," I assured them. "She's just part squirrel."

So here, ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Amie and Leroy. Toot-toot; beep-beep.

"Costume and makeup are here!"

"Did someone say 'curley parsley'?"

"Hey Leroy, don't bogart the bunny blow!"

"C'mon Ladies... it's time for some night fever, night fever."

Old enough to vote!!!!!

Happy Birthday to George and Harry, who turn 18 this month. When I met them I was 27, making them my longest, most successful relationships. With each passing year I love them more, if that's even possible.

Let the wild partying begin.

Harry's Habit

"Mirror Vietnam" by H. Campbell

Harry is obsessed with eating the rabbits’ timothy hay. I’ve tried buying organic cat grass, which is essentially wheat grass and has the advantage of lacking hay’s rough edges, which is what makes cats vomit. The cats wanted nothing to do with the cat grass; it was too succulent, too fragrant, too expensive. (The rabbits, on other hand, acted as if they’d been given crack, and tore into the stuff in a frenzy.)

So each time the rabbit room is open, Harry and I wage a battle of wills: he is determined to eat the hay; I am just as determined to keep him out. The following is Harry’s typical routine:

Sneak into rabbit room. Eat as much hay as quickly as possible, while rabbits look on with contempt. Moments later, fill the house with the GLOOPGLOOPGLOOP sounds of cat in vomitus extremis. As Joy comes running to move action into the bathtub, move quickly to ensure that the product of this gastronomic reverse is spewed not into the bathtub, not onto the stone tile floor of the bathroom, the hardwood floors throughout the house, or the newspaper by the front door, but onto the yellow rug in the living room. (For maximum effect, this step is best carried out directly after eating wet-cat-food supper.)

Repeat as often as possible, until loud threats of vivisection take on a ring of sincerity.

Bunny Rebellion

After the vet appointment last Saturday during which I was told to ditch the pellets, I...ditched the pellets. Into my yard. (There are wild rabbits who frequent my yard, although the only sign I ever see are their tracks.)

At night, before bed, the dispensing of fresh hay is met with a general happiness. The morning pellet feeding, however, is a time of unbounded delerium: the rabbit room door is opened and two black-and-white 5-lb. blurs come flying past my ankles, running in circles around the living room, weaving down the hallway, turning in the bedroom and scorching back to the rabbit room, where they circle and dance and ARE SO EXCITED to have their morning pellets (it is this particular routine that has caused every pet sitter I've ever hired to decide that she must have bunnies). They know they are fed separately, so Lola jumps into the hutch expectantly while Rudy waits at my feet.

This morning, no pellets. I'd fed the cats and, when I opened the rabbit-room door, was met with the usual frenzy of anticipation, but confusion set in when it became clear that I did not have bowls of pellets. The bunnies sat next to each other on the floor, looking stunned as I headed for the hay closet. I grabbed a nice handful of hay, put it in their box, and said, "Hey, Guys, look. Nice hay. TASTY hay."

I do not exaggerate: They looked at me, looked at each other, and simultaneously shot out of the room and headed for Harry's kibble bowl. Rudy stood to the side while Lola literally shoved her head UNDER Harry's feeding mouth and started snarfing kibble. I managed to grab her before a very confused and irked Harry fully realized what was happening, and got both rabbits secured before long.

It's been a few days now and I think they're adjusting, but I still catch them looking at me oddly, as if to say, "What did we do?"

Mannie-Peddie-Toothie Bunny

The Bunnies had their annual checkup with Dr. Davis, who is the best rabbit vet I have ever met. When I told her about Lola's weeping eyes, she suggested it could be tooth problems, and felt under her jaw.

"Yeah, it feels a little rough under here," she said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I'm going to check her teeth. They may need trimming."

Dr. Davis works on the rabbits by making what she calls a "bunny burrito," wrapping them snugly in a towel with just their head showing.

When she returned, she confirmed that Lola had had some points, including one that was digging into her cheek. She'd also trimmed her nails, which is good because my attempts usually result in a transformation into The Amazing Twelve-Legged Kicking Rabbit. My sad technique is to sneak up on her while she's eating and snag as many toes as possible before she clues in and hurtles away.

"I'd like her to come back once a month for now to keep an eye on her teeth. Their teeth keep growing, as you know, and if they overgrow to the point where there's an infection in the jaw, that's bad. You can't really do anything about it, the infection doesn't go away, and you're pretty much looking at euthanasia. I'd like to be overly cautious for now."

I wasn't going to argue. "Euthansia" isn't a word anyone likes to hear when talking about their pet.

She also old me that chewing hay was the preventative, that they don't need to be fed pellets, and I should stop the pellets to encourage even more hay-chewing.

I wasn't aware of this. I wasn't aware that pellets aren't recommended for pet rabbits. I felt like an idiot, but on the bright side, this changes my life. This means petsitters need only come by once a day, saving me huge money on their services when I go away. Never have I gone to the vet and come away thinking about the money I'd save!

She put Lola in front of the carrier. Lola hopped in and rendered her opinion of it all by raising her tail and letting loose a stream of urine. Rudy, sitting next to this, gave me A Look. He is bonded to her for life and I know he adores her, but at times like this I get an impression of Niles Crane married to Courtney Love. Lola is not what you'd call delicate; if she were human she'd be a trash-talking, Vantage-smoking truckstop waitress. Fortunately, I had foreseen something like this and had put material in the bottom of the carrier.

Rudy was next; he gets bloodwork done, and he gave me a resigned stare of doom as his burrito'd self was carried through the rear door. When he returned he looked grim and stoic, like someone who'd survived a probe during an alien abduction. He'd also gotten a nail trim. He was released from his towel and joined Lola in the carrier.

"My faviorite is the Bunny Finger," Dr. Davis said. "They can't really flip you off, so they just jut out one paw at you."

It's true. They do.

Furry Purry Love

It’s been 16 years since I caught Harry and George as feral kittens in North Carolina. Harry remains as outgoing as he’s always been, and George, after many years, blossomed into a sweet, still somewhat shy but much more outgoing cat who actually sits next to strangers after fewer than three visits.

While George is still a snuggle-seeking baby, Harry is, as always, my dude, clearly considering himself my partner, telling me when it’s time to eat, sitting next to the tub while I shower, watching over me when I’m sick, and following me around the house tirelessly. He’s still brave and loyal despite the cloudiness in his eyes, some missing teeth, and the growing stiffness in his legs that makes it hard for him to climb onto the bed now.

Each night he curls up next to my neck, resting his head on my shoulder and purring loudly and happily. Often I turn on my side, facing him, our heads touching, my fingers tangled among the soft pads of his paws. At such times I am filled with a love and gratitude so powerful that it overwhelms me, knowing that the only thing that can match its intensity is the howling, suffocating grief that will replace it when he is gone.