I don't call her Phoebe no more.

A month-and-a-half ago I bought a rabbit.
I'd had a few growing up, missed that simple
companionship, wanted to have something
to love and come home to that can't fuck
it up by talking. I knew I wanted a female
since they tend to make friendlier pets
(once anything with testicles reaches
puberty it becomes frustrated and ornery)
and thought I wanted a black one
since all of the others I had were
(creature of habit that I am).
I was proven wrong about the color preference
the minute I saw the store's one dwarf rabbit's
black and tan face, split down the middle;
I figured we already had one thing in common.
And I wasn't too far off
because for as sweet as she can be, she's
awfully mischievous at times.

Like when she developed the habit of hiding
under my bed. It was amusing at first
but the novelty faded once she started
refusing to come out, especially when I
was running late for something.
Then she kicked it up a notch
by chewing a hole in the felt lining underneath
my boxspring and would hop up inside of it.
All I'd see was the weight of her body
forcing her nails down through the thin, black
cloth. I'd try to coax her back down through
the hole, but it proved difficult so I tore some
more holes in the fabric. About three weeks went by
with this daily routine. Finally I got fed up
and ripped out the entire lining off the bottom of
the boxspring in a fit of desperate rage.
Later that night I felt terrible for taking her
hiding place away from her. How would I feel
if someone burned my bookshelf or broke
my keyboard?

I felt bad for awhile and took it out on her
by not letting her out the next night.
(It's funny how guilt works that way.)
I heard her rattling the door of her cage
with her teeth as I rattled my saber
in front of this screen and turned the music up
louder to drown out the noise.
Sorry, Rabbit, I guess
we
weren't each other's saviors
either.

The day after I let her out
in the hopes that she had
the fifteen-second memory
of a goldfish, such a promising
quality to possess. She pulled the
tattered cloth from under the bed
and played with it for old time's sake.
It was a truce for the time being.

A week later I noticed that my mattress
was no longer level, being a pipefitter and all.
Upon further inspection
I found that the two legs under the foot
of the bed had somehow been bent, either
from diving into bed after a hard day's work
or excessively aggressive extra-curriculars.
For fear of crushing the rabbit by accident
while reading (or something more and less exciting)
in bed one night I removed the frame
and settled for having the mattress on the boxspring
on the floor. So now she just jumps right on top of it
chewing the sheets, scratching at the comforter
shitting wherever she pleases when my back is turned
as I sit here typing this stupid anecdote.

The moral, if there must be, is of course
that women always win.
Well, at least until they meet
Yours Truly.

It all means nothing to you, far less
than the typical passive-aggressive, ambiguous
banter that I ramble on with here.
But maybe twenty years from now
it's something I'll want to remember, and thank
the gods that I'm no goldfish
for once.