The hand that feeds.

Rabbits are silent sufferers.
Their vocal cords aren't developed
enough to make the sounds
that other creatures of similar size
are known to make.
The occasional grunt, a primitive-sounding
attempt at vocalized discontent, escapes
their heads once in awhile; other than that
the only time you'll hear a rabbit
make a peep is when it's mortally wounded.
And in those brief moments before death
it more than makes up for its years of silence.
I've seen a few flail around convulsively
as they squealed their last breaths.
It's something that sticks with you.

I squat down next to her cage
and rub her nose, the valley on top of her head
between her bulging eyes, the notch
at the base of her skull where her ears protrude.
She bows her head and lets me pet her
in a rare display of submission.
The tolerance she's showing is
not to be confused with affection.
After half a minute it becomes too much
for her feral nature to bear
and she grinds her teeth in muted frustration.
I give her soft beige fur one last stroke
and retract my hand from her cage
in order to respect her desire to be left alone.
Still, not a sound from her crouched five pounds.
She remains motionless as I turn and enter my room
a rigid statue of an ironically cold-hearted animal.
Only now do I hear her munching on some hay.
Things are back to normal in her world again.
Sometimes I feel bad for disrupting that continuity.
This strangely unrequited love is something
I've grown used to somehow.
I hope to never have to do that again.

Rabbits are silent sufferers.
I wonder whether or not its a classic case
of opposites attracting.