When I was young, my siblings and I convinced my parents to buy us a pet. Since my parents had some difficulty with a dog before I was born, they decided that we should get a less rambunctious animal. We got a cute pet rabbit.
I thought the rabbit was really cool, until I tried to take him on the walk and I ended up dragging him around the block. We thought he liked to snuggle in the crook of our arms, until we found out he was nibbling on our shirts. He would run away from us, hide behind the couch, and nibble on the couch ruffle or power cords. We learned very quickly that we would have to put him in his cage backwards because if he knew that he was going back in his hutch, he would struggle to get out. My older sister still has a few faint scars on her arm where he succeeded.
My little sister was born after we had the rabbit for several years. She wanted a dog (which I mentioned in an earlier post). There was one Christmas that she asked my mother for a dog. My mother said no because we had the rabbit and getting a dog would probably kill the rabbit from stress. She came back to my mother a few days later and asked, “Would it be wrong to pray for a dog? That would mean I would be praying for Foggy’s death.”
She does have her dog now. The rabbit lived for almost fifteen years. I am actually surprised he lived that long since we weren’t the best caretakers.
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