Rabbits Disapprove of Giving Rabbits for Easter

We are a family who has House Rabbits. 

I'll give you a moment to compose yourself as you laugh and wipe away tears. 

Yes. House Rabbits. Free Roam, litter trained, spayed and neutered House Rabbits. Kind of like Cats, with longer ears and the whole vegetarian vibe going for them.

I never planned on being a House Rabbit parent.  No sir. I was fine with La Chatte, a neighborhood cat who adopted us upon our moving into HER home. I mean, it wasn't as if we were going anywhere, and she seemed nice enough. I was however, a little shocked. People just move away and LEAVE their pets? Really!?

I later came to find that in Montreal, it is a huge problem - especially on the July 1 - Moving Day. Shelters around the city begin to be flooded with animals of all sorts whose owners decided that , Meh - just not worth the trouble to move the animal. 

Now, there is a pet store in our local Mall, which shall remain nameless. Every time we are in the mall, Emily Begs to go and see the animals. Lizards, Birds, Rabbits, Guinea Pigs, Rats, Ferrets...all the way up through $1200 purebred dogs. And I hate it. I hate the whole thing.  I watch children beg and plead for the cute animals...and sometimes they go home with them. 

But what happens after that?  Let me tell you what happens after that Twelve dollar baby bunny is no longer "cute" or "convenient" or "fun".

Jackson is our male gray chinchilla rabbit, with lovely long silky ears. He was most likely adopted as a baby bunny around Easter last year. He was, no doubt, very sweet and cute and fuzzy. He was also, most likely, well behaved and easy to manage.

When they found Jackson ( and another male rabbit) they figured that the two boys had been in the now empty, locked apartment for 2 weeks. They were both undernourished, but managed to stay alive. Maybe the previous owner had left the rest of the bag of pellets out for them. In fact, that is the only way I can figure they were able to not starve to death. Jackson was taken to the SPCA where he was examined, and when he was healthy enough, put up for adoption. His path and ours intersected as we were looking for a guy to bond with our female rabbit. 

We were interviewed, and gave our Exotics Vet name and number as a reference. We got a call, came back and met Jackson and agreed to foster him for a couple of months, to see if he and Coco bonded as well as free up a space in the shelter for another rabbit in Jackson's situation. His neuter was scheduled for the coming Friday and we planned to pick him up after the procedure. 

Of course, Jackson's experience with humans had not been stellar up to this point. It took him some time to relax and heal. It took longer for him to get used to eating a proper rabbit diet of mostly greens instead of pellets designed for Meat Rabbits. He did, however, fall in love with Coco ( who had been rescued after living in a dark basement in a small cage for 2 years). By October, we had gone back to the SPCA and made the fostering into an official adoption. He had a forever family.

Loki, our current Feline Family member is also an SPCA abandon. Never Neutered. Never immunized. When we adopted him he was already infected with Feline Rhino, a viral infection which stays with the cat for life if infected. His already damaged nose ( kicked in the face? His front teeth were also broken) is now forever really messed up. He can't smell most things due to the after effects of the virus.

What do all these stories have in common? Abandoned Animals. Discarded when the novelty wore off. Animals who became teenagers after being cute puppies or bunnies or kitties and their humans just couldn't be bothered.  

For we in the House Rabbit family, Easter is a terrifying time. I know that people will buy bunnies from pet stores, only to turn them "loose" by summer when their hormones kick in and they become rebellious, sexually frustrated teen Buns - like a smaller, furry motorcycle gang with the ability to rapidly reproduce.

What happens to those rabbits? Well, what would happen to you if we stripped you naked and set you in the middle of the Amazon?  A majority become dinner for larger prey. A few ( very,very few) make it until the cold, or people or cars kill them. Some go on Craigslist where some people may "adopt " them, not knowing anything about the intensive care and feeding that rabbits require, only to be given away again, or set "free". Some become food for peoples pet snakes.

So, do me a favor. Research. Consider. Think. If you choose to bring ANY pet home, are you willing and able to provide care, medical attention, nutrition, and social interaction/exercise that this Pet deserves? 

Just because a pet is small, doesn't mean it doesn't need to be seen by a Vet who is knowledgeable about their species. In the case of Coco and Jackson, they see an Exotics vet for yearly checkups and the occasional in between visit for possible ear infections/teeth/sore hocks issues.  When Coco was so ill with Bloat this winter, it was 500 bucks for a 4 day illness. When Jackson was seen a month ago for Stasis - a condition which can worsen and kill a rabbit - it was 170 dollars for a visit AND all of the medication, special food and fluids. Not to mention I had the supreme honor of having to force feed a rabbit with a syringe.

Yes, they were both spayed and neutered, and it wasn't cheap. Yes, they eat a very small amount of pellets, but the majority of their diet is fresh greens - about 8 cups a day for the two of them. And the Hay I buy in bulk from a local farm. They eat a 4 pound bag a week. Oh - and you can't just "leave them alone" when you go on vacation - Rabbits need to be boarded or otherwise cared for in your absence. More $$.

Rabbits need a minimum of 3 uncaged hours per day - more if they can, and in the case of Coco and Jackson, free roam, 24/7. Less leads to muscle issues , as well as gut immobility. They are grazers and built to be moving. Being confined in a tiny cage does not serve their body well.

Which leads me to rabbit proofing - thick plastic cables to encase the cords, small gates to keep them from the bigger things and hundreds of dollars of replaced cables when we forget.

In the words of my vet, who examined Jackson after we had adopted him and after hearing the story of how he had been found in the locked apartment:

"There is a special place in hell for assholes like that."

I sure hope so.

Don't be one of those people.

Want to research more on the care of House Rabbits?

House Rabbit Society is an excellent place to start.

A personal favorite: Binky Bunny Forum. This is my "rabbit" home and these folks have kindly taught me nearly everything I know. Jackson and Coco stories are on there, including their bonding story. I also  LOVE the store and my rabbits adore the Maze Haven, Tunnel and every other product!

Sacre Bleck!

This morning Emily was discussing a post she saw on Facebook referencing Easter.

As you know, we are not a religious sort of family. Now what you may not know is that both Terrance and I were raised as Catholics. I took a detour into the Anglican church during high school, but still considered myself raised as a Catholic. Our choice to not immerse our offspring in Catholicism and religion in general was quite intentional.

Terrance: Was she talking about Good Friday?

Emily: I don't know!

Dawn: It could be she meant Good Friday...

Terrance: All I remember was that we couldn't go outside between noon and 4 because that was when
Jesus died...

Dawn: What?!? How on earth does anyone know the precise time Jesus died?  What would have happened if you had gone outside?

Terrance: Oh, and those stations!

Emily: Stations?

Dawn: Oh, yeah, the Stations of the cross. I hated those.

Terrance: Yeah, they freaked me out. I once came across an outdoor version in college. Scared the shit out of me. What were they? Reclamations?

Dawn: Acts of Reparation, Terrance. What would you be reclaiming?

Terrance: What was that time of day called? When Jesus was dying?

Dawn: The passion.

(Emily listening, horrified and amazed)

Emily: So, you had to do something?

Dawn: Yes. You have to go to each station and pray.

Terrance: Now you have to look it up. Go look it up and tell us what you find out.

(This is the price to be paid when both parents are PhD's.  Look it up! Look it up!)


Emily (Later): I looked them up....

Dawn: And?

Emily: They were horrifying. Like stop action animation.......but FAR WORSE and creepier!

Dawn: That is an excellent analogy. Hey Terrance, you could take her to services this week while she is on Spring break.

Terrance: Yeah, I suppose I could. There is Good Friday.

Dawn: And Maundy Thursday.

Emily: WHAT?!?! What is so Good about dying on a Friday? Why is that Good?

Dawn: Of course that only comes after Headache Monday.

Emily:  (silence)

Dawn: Then there is Groin Pull Tuesday

Emily: (silence with smile)

Dawn: Then comes Stomach-ache Wednesday. Jesus had a terrible week.

Emily begins to full on belly laugh.

I love my kid.

ETA: Later, we were walking to the movie theatre and Emily leans is to say:
"It sounds like Jesus had the type of week that Daddy has every week..."

That's my girl.

Desiderata

I write stories in my head as I fall to sleep. I do not know if others do this, but this soothes me. Helping me make sense of the day and ordering the toys I have not put away, I add pieces and bits to the stories until I finally blink out for the evening.

It may be my need for some kind of order, some kind of understanding of why things happen or why people act and react in the manner that they do that drives this habit. Perhaps it is borne of my years of observing children, puzzling through the how and why of their actions to catch fleeting glimpses of the wonder inside their heads. Perhaps I am just a storyteller.

***

I do not think I am beautiful. I do not say this to elicit responses of "On NO, Dawn, you ARE", but to simply frame my understanding of myself. My attractiveness is rarely considered by me. I will dress in a manner that pleases me,  for I am attracted to a certain look, a certain feminine sureness. I like high heels. I like dresses. I like jewelry and I (finally) love makeup. Yet, I am oblivious of how I appear to others.

My appearance is never something that I consider static. I dress for a part and those parts are divided by where I am. I can be "Professional Dawn", which has morphed into "Professor Dawn".  I can be "Not at work" Dawn. Those people are not the same and don't really look the same. "Not at work" Dawn wears her quirky tshirts and funky flat shoes. She wears about the same amount of eyeshadow.

(I had a couple of nights of work time in my Creative Arts class. I arrived in my yoga pants, a Red Riding Hood wearing a wolfskin tshirt and my black sneakers with rainbow skulls. One of my students was startled. She told me she almost didn't recognize me.)

I am not married to man who makes much comment or notice of my appearance. He does not tell me I am beautiful, or attractive. I do know that he wishes, frequently, that I would tone down certain parts of myself. That's not happening any time soon, so I continue to wear patterned fishnet stockings and bright eye shadow. If a person flirts with me, I rarely understand it is happening at the moment. It is only in the reconstruction of my day before I fall to sleep that a glimmer of "ohhhhh" may take place.

I often wonder what it would be like to be with a partner who "gets" me in the way that Terrance does not. Terrance does not think I am funny, nor finds the things I find funny to be humorous. Terrance is not impressed by my outfits. Terrance thinks my newfound love of eyeshadow is ridiculous. He quietly seethes at my shoe collection. He does not like my music nor the shows that I like to watch.

My plan to choose a partner and not a friend as a spouse has exceeded my expectations.

***

While cleaning the bathroom, I note how much hair I seem to shed. It is quite obviously mine; long and brown. As I clean, I find more and more.  

I begin to wonder how I can lose that much hair and still remain with the ridiculously thick and unruly amount on my head. 

***

The rabbits are noticing spring. Jackson makes humming noises as he hops around. This usually means that he feels romantic, despite his neutered state. He has decided to reconstruct his cardboard house and spends hours ripping and shredding cardboard. 

Coco is more taciturn, preferring to figure out how to knock the barrier down and make her escape down the hall. She is showing her age a bit more, but rejoices when she makes her break. 

I hear squeaky bunny snores as I drift off, weaving the stories of my day in my head.

Acceptance II

Yes. There was a post that was here with a similar title.

While I rarely take posts down, that one felt too close to my bone. Perhaps it is because I am getting older, or perhaps it is because that inevitable ending belongs to another person as much as it belongs to me.

Within all of my writing here I have always tried to assert that this is my version of the story. I am never blameless.

Acceptance of the way things are is a difficult concept. My nature is not to accept anything, but to push forward, onward. It is that nature which has fueled my survival.

Being in this emotional place, this in between - Not happy and not entirely unhappy - is like being on a raft in a lake of no consequence. I neither win nor lose. I simply am.

Yet there remains some small voice that emerges saying "There is more. There is different than this." It is that voice which I instinctively heed. Other times, such as now, I stifle it. The discontent it breeds does not serve me well.

I must learn to sit on my raft and be content for now. My stasis is not unhealthy to the position which benefits the majority of my family.

I must accept that.

This is what happens when you live with a teacher/geek

Conversation #1

Terrance (on phone): Um, there is a strange charge on our house acct...

Dawn (in her office): Hmmm?

Terrance: Yeah. It is for 199.99 and is National Geographic?

Dawn: Yeah. That's me. I ordered one of those Genealogy kits for myself. You know, the one I asked for in 2007 as a birthday present? I went ahead and bought it for myself with some of my tax refund money.

Terrance: (pause) Oh. Ok.

Several Days Later

Terrance (on phone): HEY! There is a crazy charge on our acct?!?!?! It is some children's store in NYC and it is for nearly 500 dollars?!?!?

Dawn (in her office): Oh, yeah. That is me. Shit. I thought I put that on my checking card. I must have used the house card by mistake. I'll transfer the money over in a second.

Terrance: Are you sure that this is yours? Someone could have cloned my card when I was in the city last week!!! It's a place called Kaaaa-miiissshhh??

Dawn: No, it's me.  It's Kamishibai. Remember those cards I have for storytelling? The ones from Japan? I ordered the stage and some more story cards for my class. I want them to do some Japanese style storytelling.

Terrance: I don't know what you are talking about.

Dawn: Never mind. I will move the money over right now.

Terrance: It was 500 dollars!!!

Dawn: Yes. I am buying it out of my refund cheque. 

Terrance: But it was you, right?

Dawn: Yes. It was me. The money has been transferred now. 

Terrance: Because I was going to start canceling the bank cards...

Dawn: No need. Everything is fine.

Gorey Love

Happy Birthday to a person who brings me much baleful joy.

HVD 2013

Nothing says Valentine's Day like Bright pink lipstick.

And a upcycled cat beret.

The thing that can not be mentioned

The thing that can not be mentioned lives just outside my eye line. I can almost see it, if I turn my head quickly.

However, like all things that can not be mentioned, it flees if looked at directly.

There are times in which I realize that I have almost forgotten about the thing that can not be mentioned.

It emerges from shadows before I drift off to sleep, sidling up to my bedside and whispering to me.  I lift from my descent into sleep just long enough to recognize this old friend, this love long departed, before I close my eyes and try to return to sleep.

It never quite works, of course. The thing that can not be mentioned has settled in next to me. I struggle to find a comfortable spot in my bed, while the thing that can not be mentioned shifts and moves with my contortions.  I sleep, sweaty and restless. I wake with my head where my feet should be and my sheets twisted around my body.

I go to work. I laugh. I take pleasure in my work.  I come home and indulge the rabbits, giggle with my daughter.

Later, the thing that can not be mentioned will return. Emerging from the gloaming; slinking, skulking, stealing up in to my bed to curl around me once again.

I sigh.

My lips part and I exhale.

"I miss you."

I close my eyes to the thing that can not be mentioned, rolling over to gather my pillows in my arms. I pretend it is not there and seek my peace where I can find it.

Second First Day

My second semester begins tomorrow and I am nervous.

I wonder about these new groups of students I will share space with, wondering about their personalities and if they will like me...or rather if they will trust me enough to listen to whatever it is I am going to share with them.

I fidget as I work on syllabuses. Striking some things, writing others, struggling between too much rigidity on the syllabus and too much wide open space. They need structure, but I need flexibility to observe them and work on some parts while skimming over others.

I've not yet decided in what costume I will adorn myself. That is, after all, part of the role I play.

I have created my stage in my classroom. I hope they are soothed and inspired by the environment, as it soothes and inspires me.



At the end of term last year I found a card in my box.

"Dear Professor Rouse,

Your class was never dreadful because you are a splendid instructor."


This is the mantra I will use as I face my next group of students.

Teaching Lab

A few days after Christmas, I began a transformation of my teaching space. I enlisted Emily into a sort of captive teen servitude as I began to deconstruct the teaching lab.

It was not a simple cleaning. Twenty years worth of materials needed to be sorted and cleaned. Any person who has walked into the classroom of another knows exactly of what I speak. Cabinets had to be excavated. Paints washed and combined. Items labeled and placed in the correct places.

The custodians were kind, but clearly wondered why the new professor was spending her break in the school, working 2-7 hours a day cleaning materials.  They patiently hauled bucket after bucket of trash away.

Some tasks were easy, but mundane. Pulling out all the broken bits of crayons, peeling off papers on what can be used to melt and recreate, discarding others I suspect are toxic.

I test markers, I open glue sticks to make sure they are usable  I wash and refill glue bottles.

I have been collecting baskets and bowls since September when I knew that I was going to begin this transformation. I visit the local Salvation Army and Goodwill frequently, looking for treasures. I want no plastic containers; choosing old wooden bowls, small glass containers and sturdy natural baskets to be my medium.

It takes nearly three weeks of cleaning and arranging before I am content.  On Tuesday, I tell my colleagues that I am satisfied.

A somewhat cluttered teaching lab is now something more; a place for students to see what we are talking about when we discuss aesthetics and functionality.

This re-imagined space pleases me. I will be adding a light table and beautiful new instruments in the coming weeks (hurrah for grants). I am creating lists of materials that we need in the Resource Library ( A whole OTHER photo essay as I purge that particular room) and still looking for lamps and other ways to soften and change the lighting. I am not a fan of fluorescent light and don't like for children or adults to be surrounded by it.

This is where I teach.

Subversive Tights

There is nothing better than subversive tights, worn on a Sunday afternoon:

Except for, of course, subversive pink eyeshadow and hot pink lip tar.

Scarred

You can still see the scar under my right eye. Look closely. It lies in the crease of my cheek, running from the corner of my eye downwards.

I acquired this scar when I was three and sat on our sleeping dog. The dog, named Dog, was startled and bit me in the face. I recall the panic in the voice of my mother. I recall my father being incredibly angry. I have no doubt that the injury looked horrific - bloody, close to my eye,  pieces of my flesh laid open.

Like all wounds, it healed.

Most people do not even notice that I have such a scar. The placement folds naturally in my cheek and I wear glasses.

I show my scars to you. I have no ulterior motive.

I, like every other adult on the earth, am flawed.  The difference is that I don't fear my flaws. I don't obscure them or gloss over them.

Imperfect Uncertainty.

White Light

Some days you have to wear your Gorillaz Converse with sparkley tights and go to the movies.

Doors Closed

I spend a great deal of time trying to puzzle through my relationship with Terrance.

On nights like this, when he has called me a selfish and miserable bitch and I follow him to tell him that he has my full attention and what does he need which causes him to tell me through clenched teeth and bulging veins to leave him alone, I wonder why I stay married, why we stay married.

I do not claim to be innocent. I ignored him as he comes moaning into my bedroom, seeking my attention. This is because he does this constantly. He moans, he groans. He tells me that he thinks his chapped lips mean that he has cancer, or that his stomach ache is an ulcer. He interrupts what I am doing to make me look at the cut on his foot, or ask me to put a band-aid on it. While moaning.

This drives me fucking crazy.

Then he stands in front of the television. Like a three year old.

I do not give him the attention he craves so he, like a toddler, amps up his requests for attention.  Then, like a toddler, he storms and rails against me. Unlike a toddler, he knows my soft underbelly and rarely holds back.

He uses the words I use to describe my mother: Narcissistic, self involved, selfish. Why does he fucking put up with me?

The truth is that I don't know.

The other truth is that since 1991 I have been building my walls against his disapproving anger. I insulate against the punishment, the disappointment, the litany of words that describe what I am not for him.

I have deadened my reactions to him because the alternate would be to live on tenterhooks. This state of being is not conducive to attempting any kind of normalcy.

The other mind fuck is that I can no longer tell you if it is him, or if it is me or if it is neither. I have no grasp of what is real in this relationship. I do not trust what I see nor what I feel. I certainly don't trust the person who has told me that I am neurotic and have low self esteem for 21 years. I recently asked him to introduce me to the person he thinks he is married to since I have no idea who this person might be. She doesn't look like the person I know internally.

Goodness knows that the person he presents to the world in no way resembles the man with whom I live.

So many of these doors are closed and I have no energy or desire to open them.

Doctorem

Something arrived in the mail last week.


I am not yet ready to write about the murders of children in Connecticut. Suffice it to say that I have cried more than I can quite understand. Emily has been comforting me as I weep. I do not like for her to be my comfort, for it is not her job in the world. That is my job in her world. Yet, those events broke something in me. Perhaps it is because I have loved and taught children just like those children. Perhaps it is because I am now teaching young teachers, just like those teachers.

All I know is that I continue to cry, even now writing this.

Chip off the old Baleful

The drive home tonight after I pick Emily up after school:

Emily: "Eli asked me if I knew the reason we celebrate Christmas and I said "I dunno - gifts? Trees? Family?" and he said "NO! We celebrate the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ!" so I just shrugged and said..."Uhhhhh......OK."

Me: "Was Eli upset?"

Emily: "Yeah, he was getting all stressed about it. Then I started to giggle and he asked me what I thought was so funny so I told him "Easter." That is when he asked me if I knew what Easter was all about then proclaimed "Our savior rising from the Dead!" That is when I said "Do you know what my Mom and I call it?" and he asked me what, so I told him."

Me: "Oh, no......"

Emily: "Zombie Jesus. I thought his head was going to explode he was so angry. I asked Eli if Zombie Jesus needed to eat braaaaiiiiinnnnnssssss and he just didn't think it was funny at all."


Me: "I'm not sure you are going to be invited over to have pizza at Eli's house anymore."

Incorrigible

I had been watching the men working on the lot across from my office for quite a while. There was a house there that suddenly one August day .....was not.

I thought not much more about it. These things, houses and people, come and go. One is best served to not resist the flow of the tide, but rather observe and remember.

I settle into the flow of my days, of classes and students, of new names and faces. I settle Emily into her new routines and smile to myself as she begins to socially blossom. My smart ass sense of humor flows directly through my daughter. This does my heart proud.

By the beginning of December the work men come back to the lot across the street.

I am getting tired, although I dearly love my job and the students.

Later that night, I am leaving my late class. The sun has already set and it is getting cold. I walk towards the parking lot.

I watched the men pour the concrete that day. The tug of longing to stick my finger in the rough, cold cement and make my mark surges up, a remnant of childhood.

I look around. Surely, no one will stop a professor on the way back to her car. It will just look like I dropped something and bent down to retrieve the errant object.  My finger touches the concrete. Still damp and rougher than sandpaper.

D.................R............................

My giggle erupts after I finish, snap the picture and walk elegantly back to my car.

I remain incorrigible.

Midlife

Therapist: So how are you feeling?

Me: Fine.

Therapist: Are you happy?

Me: Happy? What do you mean?

Therapist: Happy. Are you happy?

Me: I don't know. I'm not unhappy.  I don't know if I have ever been happy though.

Therapist: Would you say that you are depressed?

Me: No. I'm not depressed. I know depressed, this isn't depressed.

Therapist: Have you considered the mood stabilizers?

Me: Yes...And No. I read up on them and the side effects are unacceptable. The Pristiq is doing fine at controlling the depression. I'm not adding a mood stabilizer that might make things far worse. Maybe I am just not meant to be happy in the way other people think of happy.

************

What is happy, my internet friends? Where does satisfaction with some of your life become enough? When does one stop looking for or expecting something that is not meant for you, by virtue of brain chemistry? When does the desire for that something spill over into the unobtainable which keeps you chasing the elusive desire that it might be just over there...just beyond that house, around the corner?

I'm not talking about giving up, but acceptance of how it is?

Is this the midlife crisis? Trying to figure out how to reach some kind equilibrium?

Wistful

I've mentioned that I really like my job, haven't I? I do. I like teaching and I like the students. I like poking at their brains and hopefully making them think beyond what they know now or what they might assume.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. The students are kind and respectful. If I have failed them - as I surely have on some days - they seem to forgive me. Emily visited one class and told me that I am goofy even as a Professor. Utterly NOT shocking, that news.

We are heading for Thanksgiving break and I am glad. I need the break, even the two day break. There is reading to do and lessons to plan. While I am teaching the same three course next term, there are tweaks to make and readings to change. I scan, I make lists, I try to respond to emails promptly.

I tell them that I scaffold.

Inside of me, the mist still remains. In the few quiet times, my tendency towards melancholy returns. I struggle with this part of my being.

I understand with pinpoint precision why I allow work to overtake my life. In work I am engaged. A busy brain means no room for the other parts, the doubts and the sadness.

I wait for that part of me to fade, to return to some hibernation so I can live inside the pleasure of my work, my vocation. 

Sigh of relief

We voted in our new home, Wisconsin.

I like to think we helped to tip the balance.

Emily asked me to wake her when the election was called. I just shook her gently and whispered that President Obama had been re-elected. She sighed, "Oh good" , and rolled over and went back to sleep.

Yes, my love. We can both sleep easier tonight.