I was out walking Ralph one day. (My mother had bought my rabbit a stupid leash and she kept calling and asking how he liked it - by the way, Mom, he hates it - so we were testing it out.) And I saw this guy I used to date.
He lived in the building next door from me.
He gave me a big hug, rumpled my hair and called me "goofball" (ensuring that he'll never see me naked again).
He tried petting Ralph.
"Ralph doesn't like you," I said.
He persisted.
"Ralph wants you to stop touching him."
He tried telling me things about his life that I didn't care about.
"Ralph wants to go home now."
Now, clearly, since the guy lived 10 feet away, I could've just taken Ralph home and come back and had a longer discussion about where our relationship - or nonrelationship - was going. But I am the least confrontational person ever. When I lived in Augusta, Ga., my friends used to point out that I had learned to express my feelings through Ralph. He's my puppet.
How Ralph came into my life
Two years ago, I went on a horrible date with a dental student who looked like Malibu Ken. He took me to a strip club, then spent the rest of the night biting me - not in a cute, I've-got-your-nose type way, but as if he hadn't eaten in six months. I told him to stop. He wouldn't. I broke out some of my high school self-defense lessons and went home.
The next afternoon, I went to the mall - the mall is my happy place. I wandered into the pet store, stopping in front of a bin of baby bunnies. One black rabbit was hiding from kids' lollipop-coated hands. I picked him up. He climbed onto my shoulder and nuzzled my neck.
He's a miniature Rex rabbit. Holding him, I felt better. He seemed to feel better, too. I wandered up and down the aisles for two hours: We fell in love.
I wanted that rabbit. I was 23, and all my inborn motherly instincts were raging - I needed something to love and take care of.
But a pet shouldn't be an impulse buy. I tried to forget about the little furball, but he was all I could think of. I bought him just before the mall closed Sunday. That night Ralph and I lay on my couch.
He lay on my chest: I sneezed, he sneezed. He was allergic to me, too. Great, I thought. Can you return a rabbit? But then Ralph kissed me.
And I decided that having something to love was more important than being able to breathe. Instead of wasting time with people I didn't like, I abandoned bad dates and boring parties to hang out with Ralph.
An emotional investment
If you'll permit a short digression, here's a little story about another pet that I find illuminating.
Tonya asked Chris for a bottle of perfume. He said he already knew what he was getting her for Christmas - and she better like it, because he couldn't return it.
He showed up one morning with Smokey, a little gray kitten with extremely bad gas. "Now you'll think of me whenever you look at him," Chris said. He started calling her every day to check on Smokey. It was sweet.
Problem is, Tonya hates cats. And so they've had a big fight over how she wants to get rid of it and he doesn't want to. Smokey came to represent everything that was wrong with their relationship.
And so Chris has to give Smokey to this other girl he sees occasionally. But he doesn't like that girl very much, so he doesn't want her to get the wrong idea.
I think choosing a pet is very personal: It says something about who you are and what you need. When I picked up Ralph, I couldn't put him down. I wandered around the pet store for three hours. When I came home, all I could think about was him.
Ralph gets fixed
Puberty hit Ralph hard. He turned into a hairy sex-crazed monster. He marked my friend Emily every time she visited.
Making sweet love to teddy bears wasn't enough for Ralph. He scratched up my chest and my wrists. We fought all the time. He didn't want to cuddle anymore; he wanted more.
The little devil ate my hair, my tablecloths, my electric blanket, my kitchen chairs, my phone book, my computer cables and the carpet down past the floorboards. "He thinks he's a goat," I told people.
I bought him some rabbit food that claimed to have a little something to curb his sexual appetite. But he did things to Snuggle Bear that weren't soft and cuddly.
I felt like a failure. I couldn't even get a rabbit to like me for more than a couple of months. Everything was fine, then he lost interest . . . just like every other guy in my life.
Miserable, I sat one evening at Barnes & Noble reading rabbit books. Is your snuggly bunny now a demon, it asked? Yes! The book said to get him fixed and everything would be fine.
So I had to do it. I had to lob off Ralph's boys.
For most of my friends, getting their babies fixed is very traumatic. (Like a bris but more, I guess.) We all feel really mean. It's especially weird with rabbits because they can't use sutures. Rabbits chew sutures, so the vet had to stick him together with purple glue.
Which kept coming open.
All Ralph did for days was sit very still in his favorite Peace Lily. All he would eat were caramel brownies.
A calming influence
Just after Ralph's first birthday, we moved from Georgia to Texas. Most of the trip, he sat on my lap or at my feet. This was good, because my friend Emily, who drove with us, has a hard time staying in her lane - especially on bridges.
I have a fear of bridges - and a fear of Em's driving - so having Ralph calmed me down.
When we stopped in New Orleans, we had to sneak Ralph into the hotel. It's illegal to have pets in your hotel room there, God knows why. We threw him in Emily's backpack - it was like a bad John Candy movie.
Do you have a bird? the bellboy asked, eyeing the empty cage.
Sure, I said.
What kind? he asked.
Dead, I said.
Emily's backpack moved.
Furball of love
Now things are blissful. Ralph shares my Froot Loops in the morning and gives me kisses when I get home; and, if he upsets me, I can lock him in his cage. Ralph's my little ball of love.
My fat rabbit is so spoiled that if his carrot falls off the pillow, he won't eat it until I pick it up. If the stool to get on his favorite chair isn't close enough to his favorite chair, he jumps up on it and scoots it around the living room until I move it. If I sit on his favorite chair, he starts lunging at me.
My vet says my rabbit likes to be the center of all my attention. If someone is over and Ralph wants attention, since he doesn't have vocal cords, he kisses my feet, tugs on my jeans or starts sneezing and has a spastic asthma attack until I pick him up. Then, miraculously, he's fine.
Don't be cruel
This guy Peter criticized and complained about everything. The movie was too loud, his Thai food was too oily, the fan was too loud.
He said he couldn't "deal with" the CD I had on. And he couldn't "deal with" how hot it was in my apartment (it's Texas; it's hot in Texas). But when he said he couldn't "deal with" my pet rabbit, I realized that I didn't want to "deal with" him.
I was holding Ralph one day; Peter told me to get "that thing" away from him.
My baby is not a "thing." He started yelling about how dirty Ralph's litter box was.
"You can go now," I said. Ralph buried himself into my neck.
"Can he tell that I was talking about him?" Peter asked. "Is he mad at me?"
"Ralph doesn't care about you," I said. "Go away now."
I just couldn't believe someone would yell at Ralph. Ralph doesn't DO anything. Ralph just sits quietly on his favorite stool, eats his carrots and licks himself. He's a very peaceful creature.
For some women, if their dog doesn't like their boyfriend, buh-bye. I guess I feel the same way about Ralph.
I let Peter be mean to me and mean about everything, but he was not about to be mean to my little rabbit.
I told my boss what Peter said.
"Dump him," she said.
She, too, has a rabbit.
Caption:
Sometimes we all need a companion we can totally trust - preferably one that is warm and fuzzy.
Photo: Associated Press/Michael Stravato.
Updated: 11 August 2007