Elegy for Hershey
Early on Monday morning, my bunny Hershey died. He was eight (old for a rabbit). I aquired Hershey from my previous landlord, who was one of the great carnivores. He brought nine rabbits back one night, and was going to kill them the next day. I asked for one of them. When I got home that night, the cage containing the rabbits was gone, and in its place was a cardboard box, which, when I opened it, seemed to contain a pair of rapidly vibrating ears. Hershey was very skittish at first, but over time, he relaxed. Sometimes, he would even sit on the couch next to me. We did have our less than stellar moments - like the time he ate the printer cables. And the mouse cord. And the phone cord. But I didn't stay mad at him, and eventually rabbit-proofed my apartment. He had a good life, a life that was seven and a half years longer than it would have been, and when he went, it was peacefully.
Goodbye, Hershey.
Goodbye, Hershey.