I’m not sure I want to share this. Grief is such a personal process and no two people experience it the same way. I’m a very private person, but Bandit was such a large part of my life that it would be wrong not to acknowledge his passing.
He was 13 years old when he passed away last weekend, quite a feat for such a little bunny. Somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough time.
I don’t remember exactly when I learned the term, but in Hawaii you don’t call yourself a pet owner. Instead, you call yourself a Kahu, which translates to guardian or steward. It’s a beautifully simple way of describing how many people see the relationship between themselves and their furry little ones. It’s a term that has recently resurfaced in my life as I mourn the passing of Bandit.
Bandit and I had been together for nearly his entire life. I rarely took trips that kept us apart for more than a day, especially as he got older. But his time finally came. After numerous bouts with GI stasis, he finally had one that he couldn’t overcome. After a couple of vet visits, X-rays, and more medications than I can recall, he lost his fight in the early hours of July 18.
I keep thinking of the same questions. What if I had taken him in sooner? What if I had the X-ray a day earlier? What if, a few months before, we had found the thing growing inside him that was quietly stealing him away from me? I’ll never know if any of those moments would have saved him.
But I do know one thing. For 13 years, he was loved.
I remember the first night in my house. He ran circles through the dining room doing binkies in the air. I remember our morning togethers. I would sit in front of him and pet his little head and when I stopped he would lick my nose as if it were the most important task of the day. I remember finding him stretched out in a patch of morning sunlight, completely content with the world around him.
Bandit was such a contradiction in the way a beloved animal can be. He somehow managed to be both fiercely independent and constantly by my side.
I’ve lost other bunnies before, and it has always hit me hard, but this time feels different. There is pain when I talk about him. There is sadness when I look for him and he isn’t there. But the biggest change is how much emptiness I feel inside. A numbness that shakes me. For how much he meant to me, I feel like I should be sadder. I feel like I should be crying in the shower. Instead, I physically feel a void in my chest suppressing all of that.
Jessica tells me often that I gave him a long life. A spoiled life. A life where he didn’t have to worry about anything. That’s a burden every guardian carries. We promise ourselves we’ll protect them from everything, but in the end there is one thing we never can. We don’t get to decide how long they’re here, only what their days look like while they are around.
Even with more people in the house, it is still quieter than it’s been in 13 years. I still catch myself looking towards his enclosure when I walk by. I still expect to hear tiny feet and claws making noise across the kitchen floor. I know those habits will fade with time, but I hope those memories never do.
Bandit, I love you. I miss you. You were my best friend. Thank you for letting me be your guardian for 13 years. One day, when I’m ready, I will protect another bunny as much as I protected you.