I Wanted a Pet Bunny
I was either 4 or 5 when I begged my Mom nonstop about getting a pet bunny. She told me there wasn't enough space in our apartment—it only had one bedroom that barely fit Mom and me. Yet, I still wanted a pet. Bunnies are indoor pets that eat hay. Neither of us had a grass allergy, so I begged and begged, and finally, Mom took me to the pound. She didn't take me to get a bunny. The pound usually had cats and dogs. But she told me if I could find a bunny, I could have it. I was too young to realize what she was doing. But God decided to play a joke on both of us. There was a bunny. A blind, old, fat brown bunny. His health was bad. Looking back, the ethical thing would have been to euthanize the poor thing. I didn't see an unhealthy bunny; I saw my new pet. My Mom doesn't cuss, except when faced with something that messes with her life lessons. I threw a tantrum when she tried to talk me out of getting it. After hollering for 30 minutes- I don't believe it was that long- Mom got me the bunny.
But she told me this: Since you don't want to wait for a healthier bunny, this will be the only one you get. Got it?
I didn't realize the trap and agreed. My first and only bunny died four days later. I put him in a Payless shoe box. The lid didn't cover his body. His paper box coffin was heavy, and flies kept sneaking in. I threw him in the giant green trash, and my Mom grabbed my hand. She asked me if I wanted a new pet bunny.
I told her: No, you made me promise. END.
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