My Blogger blog is a royal mess at the moment, an unfordable swamp of timed-out connections, so I'm picking up my old diaryland blog for a post about Gordon.

As The Lotus has already written, our pet rabbit Gordon has died. She of the sharp teeth and soft fur and misleading name died on Labour Day in the backroom of a vet clinic next to a motorcycle repair shop. I took him to the vet on Friday after a routine cage cleaning the night before revealed that she hadn't eaten any pellets or shit out any pellets (rabbit food, whether entering or exiting the body, displays only minimal changes in shape and texture). Her ears, when I stroked them, were cold. So off to the vet as soon as it opened. There I found out that she was indeed a she (we'd been wrong about her gender) and that she was in good health, except for the hairball in her stomach. I was told to administer pineapple juice for the hairball, Nutri-Cal for her reduced food intake and a stanky liquid antibiotic for the troublesome sores on her feet.

The next few days were a mix of mild anxiety and supreme irritation, as I grappled twice daily with a sick and pissed-off rabbit that appreciated being pinned and held as much as you and I enjoy inhaling open flame. Gordon demonstrated the rare skill of being able to twist her head away from the syringe being gently poked into her mouth by The Lotus, somehow ducking her head underneath one of my hands and emerging from the ruff of fur and fat around her neck to bite the living shit out of my other hand. How I managed to hold on as her teeth were grinding on the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger, I'm not sure. Any other pet, any other creature, I would have thrown across the room without a thought, but in Gordon's case I delivered a mild scolding and pulled her head back up into position. The Lotus would simply keep poking away with the syringes until the sticky pineapple juice, the reeking antibiotic and the sloppy nutrient paste had all been pushed into Gordon's mouth. After each sesion I was covered in fur.

At first it seemed to do a bit of good. Gordon drank lots of water, deposited a dozen or so pellets in the corner of her cage, even ate half an apricot. I had to hand-feed her and occasionally hold her water bottle in front of her face to make it happen, but I was pretty determined to get our stupid rabbit to preserve itself. By Monday morning, though, Gordon had stopped eating and drinking altogether. Her ears were cold again and her vertebrae were palpable beneath her skin. When I picked her up for the last time she barely moved. I wanted her to twist away and bite me so badly that I was momentarily thrilled when she peed on my leg in displeasure. At one point she started to close her eyes, and I think we shouted at her in order to keep her awake. The Lotus shoved a whole syringe's worth of Nutri-Cal into Gordon's mouth. Most of it dribbled onto her ruff.

The vet saw right away that Gordon was too sick to survive without surgery, but surgery is a fantastic way of killing rabbits, from anaesthesia to recovery. The doctor asked if we wanted to euthanize, and we both nodded yes, and with that yes I think we both began to spray tears all over the place. Hmph. It was a brutal experience made even more brutal by the sight of our rabbit, sitting awkwardly on a metal table, grinding her teeth in pain. There was no way to relieve her pain other than petting and talking to her in a way we hoped comforted her, before the vet returned and took her away. When the vet did come back, she took Gordon out through a different door. That was the last I saw of Gordon.

parode - exode