Day 2 of the Dre Beltrami Challenge

Bun Love, Bun Life

“2. The Weird Obsession Confessional

We all have at least one. That thing we geek out about hard but rarely bring up because it’s “too weird.” Guess what? That shit is solid gold, baby! Write an entire post, email, or article, sharing your deepest, weirdest geekery with zero shame. (I once wrote 1,500 words about my undying devotion to Dollar Store notebooks. It was glorious.)” - Dre Beltrami

People who know me, know. I have had many obsessions that came and went. Maybe that’s just the nature of obsessions. We can’t sustain the kind of commitment and energy needed to really obsess over something/one forever, right? That’s Clinical.

But for me, it’s bunnies. It always has been bunnies and always will be bunnies.

When I was a kid, there was a fake Chinese restaurant near our house in the suburbs that we would frequent for a good meal. It was all Sesame Chicken and Beef with Broccoli white people Chinese food but honestly, it was delish. The restaurant was tucked into the corner of a strip mall that also had a shitty pet store in it. You know the kind. The kind that probably got their animals from mills and sheriff’s auctions and smelled like if a sewer fucked a barn sprinkled with cut grass. Still. There’s nothing when you’re little like other little things, namely animals. It was our preferred method of entertainment and learning, like songs on TV.

So when we showed up for the inevitable wait for a table at Hong Kong Pearl, my sisters and I would dip to the pet store to gawk at and, fingers crossed, manhandle some defenseless animals. Our parents had made clear at each of our births and basically daily their stance on pets: staunchly Against.

But little girls can dream, can’t they?

We started small and cheap, fish. Guppies cost a nickel apiece. A nickel! And you could literally keep them in water in a bowl. That’s basically free. And they were silent which was key. And needed no attention other than the odd sprinkle of fish food. Also key. And if they died, which most of them did, it wasn’t such a terrible loss. They didn’t live long to begin with and we could hardly tell them apart. We graduated from there to goldfish, chubby ones with weird bubbly heads. Our parents endorsed a 5-gallon, hexagonal fish tank with a filter and blue pebbles. We would reach up and dip our fingers into the water and the fish would come and nom nom them thinking they were fish food. Some of our fish even fell in love and had little fish babies! What a time to be alive.

One night whilst waiting for the usual at Hong Kong Pearl, we popped into the pet store to wander about and in the back where they kept the cages, there were bunnies. Itty, bitty baby bunnies. I mean, tiny. The kid behind the glass divider asked if we wanted to hold one. And that was it. That was all she wrote. When he poured that tiny ball of white, brown, and black floof into my cupped hands, I was forever changed. I wanted that thing SO. BAD. My sister could see my transfiguration. She was concerned, because 1) she could tell this was not something I would let go 2) she knew our parents would never allow it and 3) it really was so goddamn cute. We immediately began scheming on how we could buy this bitty boopity baby bunny and get it home. That’s the thing about sisters - we can telepathically contrive blood pacts.

The diagram of our obstacles to Operation: Esther Wants Babbit went like this:

Money > Smuggle home > Hide

That’s it. Elegantly simple.

And you know what? We fuckin did the damn thing. I named him Peekaboo and he lived in the defunct hexagonal glass fish tank turned on its side so really, a 4”x10” pane of clear glass because the rest was at unusably awkward angles. He would nudge my foot while I was sitting at my desk doing homework and he even sproinged into my lap to hang out. He ate my carpet and my bedroom furniture and the corners of my textbooks and the entire undercarriage of my bed frame. He’d jump on the bed and wake me in the mornings by burrowing under the blankets and nipping at me and I’d yell at him and push him off.

He was also a gigantic asshole to absolutely everyone but me. My middle sister, we all discovered, is allergic to rabbits but she would come to pick him up and snuggle him and he would bite the antecubital fossa of her arm, demanding to be put down because how dare this bitch then stomp off when I smacked his head and yelled at him. “She’s the reason you’re here, you dick!”

Thus began my lifelong love affair with rabbits.

Is there any more perfect pet? Fuck all you basic dog and cat people. Bunnies are the best of both worlds which is why they are infinitely better than either. They don’t need to be walked, they can be litter trained and quite easily. They’re vegans so their shit doesn’t stink although the ammonia-esque tang of their urine will make your eyes water. They can be affectionate and quirky and learn tricks but are self-cleaning and silent. Their upkeep is way cheaper because they will literally play with toilet paper rolls, don’t get diabetes, worms, or dart out into the street. Young or old they are so goddamn cute. Do you have any idea the number of Pokemon that are inspired by rabbits? Because DUH. Wilted salad remains from your “diet”? Don’t toss them, feed them to your cuddly compost machine.

When I grew up and started making my own money, I spent it on rabbit stuff. If there was anything in a store that had a rabbit on it, I would find it. TJMaxx and HomeGoods around Easter? GOLD MINE. Hand towels, dishware, mugs, utensils with ears, picture frames, magnets, jewelry, tote bags, throws, leather wallets, clocks, figurines (I know it just sounds like I’m listing the inventory of a Wal-Mart at this point - you get the picture), my house looked like an Easter Bunny sponsored hostel.

And of course I was a legitimate bun mom. No more of this sneaking around shit. My bunnies (yes, plural) would get their own rooms, they would get photo shoots, the first fruits of my garden. One might prefer leafy greens to say, carrots and herbs but they all love raisins. It’s like the bunny equivalent to crack.

My most recent bun son was named Samson. He was an albino lionhead rabbit meaning a long-haired breed with red eyes. Basically, he was a wizard. He had a glorious beard and these locks that would fall just-so between his ears and his fur would grow out in this waist-level skirt. He hated when you touched his head or ears but enjoyed butt pats. He would come right up onto your lap if you were holding the raisin carton and he’d climb up to your shoulder to reach for them. If you were strategic, you could hug him. Such a curious and brave fellow. That rascal would sneak out if you weren’t paying attention and get himself into all kinds of nooks and crannies. He was ornery about being groomed, which was constantly for a long-haired bun, but he was also smart enough to know when he was beat and he’d sit still. That was when head and ear touching was permitted. What follows is a comprehensive list of all the names I used to call him:

Samson

Sammy

Whammy

Sam Bam

Samshon

Grumpy old man

Floofy woof

Emo oppa (“big brother” in Korean)

Beardy claws

Flufferton

Boodle

Handsome

Boop boop boop

Floofy butt

Big Maddy

Psycho

In preparation for moving to the other side of the planet, I had to turn Samson over to a local rescue but such is his charming disposition that they were able to place him with a new home with two other bunnies. I’m told they’ve bonded and are a very happy geriatric fluffle.

In conclusion, the strongest indicator for on-going obsession is the visceral, often uncontrollable reaction of seeing the obsessive object in question or really, any object even featuring a depiction of the same which I absolutely at my grown up age of 41 still have, namely a high-pitched and protracted squeal of delight. There is no known cure for this condition but with proper diagnosis the symptoms can be managed, quality of life preserved and in many instances enhanced, and the prognosis is excellent.