A Promise to Bunnie

content warning: animal death

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“Next!”

The checkout queue finally moves up one person. I click my phone screen on and off repeatedly, as if that will slow down the clock. There’s a floral-patterned box and a plush rabbit balanced in my other hand — I’m lucky that it’s mid-March and every seasonal aisle is filled with this stuff. But I promised my eight-year-old sister I’d be home by 3:45, and I’m not sure I’ll make it in time.

The plan was to catch the bus after class and go straight home for the funeral, but when I headed out this morning, the carcass was gone. So I’m buying a replacement.

There’s no way I’m gonna let this dollar-store detour break my promise.

***

I nicknamed my sister “Bunnie” because as a toddler she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) pronounce her real name, Bonnie. Then half a decade later, Bunnie became BFFs with a wild rabbit that frequented our backyard, so the nickname was a hundred percent kismet.

The first time Bunnie saw that brown fluffball, she dashed to the fridge for some baby carrots. From then on, the two ate their afterschool snacks together like clockwork, through heavy rain, crunchy leaves, and powdery snow. After a few weeks, the rabbit was practically eating carrots out of her hand.

One day, Bunnie was wiping tears while feeding the rabbit watercress, and she blubbered to me “Mrs. Jasmine says eating too many carrots makes you turn orange!” I explained that Mrs. Jasmine was correct — for humans — and that it’s probably better for the rabbit to have a varied diet anyway. Since our workaholic parents aren’t usually home until Bunnie’s bedtime, Mom didn’t understand why Bunnie was suddenly adding vegetables to the weekly grocery list. I didn’t explain.

But yesterday, everything changed. When I got home from university, Bunnie was kneeling on the couch, watching intently out the window.

“No snack today?” I tousled her mousy hair.

“I’m waiting for Ziggy to wake up. He’s having a nap on the deck.”

I joined her on the couch to get a better look. The cottontail was curled up inside a depression in the blanket of snow, more flakes settling on its fur and whiskers. It lay completely still, its back not rising or falling. That rabbit’s not sleeping, I thought.

I put my jacket and boots back on and went out to the deck. The rabbit still didn’t move. Bunnie watched from the other side of the glass, confusion clouding her bright eyes. I shook my head.

“What’s wrong, Cora?” she asked as I opened the back door.

“I’m sorry, Bunnie. Ziggy died.”

Tears welled in her eyes and her lower lip quivered. “But… he’s just sleeping... He’ll need a snack when he wakes up… He’s hungry…”

I hugged her tight as sobs shook through her.

“Hey. Bun. I’m sure he appreciated the snacks and the time you spent together.”

Sniffles.

My heart ached. I wondered how our parents would handle this, if they would even care. “When Granny died, we had a funeral for her. A special ceremony where we remembered her and celebrated her life. Do you wanna do that for Ziggy?”

She pouted up at me and nodded while snot dripped from her nose.

“Could you find me a shoebox?”

She returned with the box from Dad’s new boots, and I scooped up the rabbit.

“It’s supposed to be warmer tomorrow. Hopefully the snow will melt and the ground will be a bit softer for burying Ziggy.” I said.

“Why are you putting Ziggy behind the barbecue, Cora?”

I smiled at her. “We should keep this a secret from Mom and Dad. They might not think it’s a good idea to have a rabbit funeral.” Plus they only ever use the barbecue when we have guests, so they won’t notice it there for a day. “Let’s have the ceremony at 3:45 sharp tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Can I invite Gabriella and Iman? I told them all about Ziggy.”

“Of course! Actually, I have a job for the three of you. On your way home from school tomorrow, try to find a nice stone that we can use as a grave marker.”

She nodded and smiled.

This morning, I was last to leave the house and just happened to notice the mess on the deck. The box was torn to shreds. Scraps of cardboard trailed through the yard, ripped apart by sharp teeth. The rabbit’s body was gone.

I’d heard of cats going missing in our neighbourhood. Dad blamed it on a coyote he’d spotted during an early-morning run. Maybe the coyote got the rabbit too. Bunnie was already devastated — if she found out the body was missing, she would be absolutely shattered.

A puff of exhaust from an approaching bus alerted me that I was about to be late to class. I took off, leaving the scraps on the deck and formulating a plan to hide the fiasco from Bunnie and her friends.

***

I finally check out at the dollar store and catch a bus home. I bounce in my seat, holding the floral box with the plush rabbit inside, praying I can make it home and swap coffins before the girls get there. The gravestone assignment I gave them should buy me some time. Besides, three young friends walking home together always get sidetracked, right? I spend the ride rehearsing my explanation to Bunnie. I thought I’d buy a nicer box for Ziggy. Let’s not open it — we should let him rest in peace.

The bus hits every red light on the way home.

I get to the house at 3:50, and there are three backpacks lying in the foyer. Before I can recalculate how to swap the boxes, I hear wailing. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Gabriella and Iman are hugging Bunnie on the living room rug.

“Cora!” she screams between sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Bunnie. I saw the box this morning.” I sink to my knees and join the group hug. “I think a coyote found him.”

“Stupid coyote!” She thrusts her fists into the floor. Maybe she doesn't care that I’m late.

I smile sadly at her friends, thanking them for being here when I wasn’t. “Well, the coyote was probably hungry and needed some food. Coyotes eat small animals sometimes—”

“Why couldn’t it just eat some grass!”

I bite my lip so I don’t snort.

“H—how are we supposed to… have a funeral… now?”

“We can still have a funeral,” I say. “I got a new, prettier box. And a fuzzy plushie to represent Ziggy. Funerals are about remembering the time we spent with loved ones, even though they’re not with us anymore. So, let’s bury this box while we think about him.”

Outside, the light breeze smells of decomposing matter that’s been under the snow since December. With a medley of garden trowels, snow shovels, and beach toys, we manage to dig through the partly squelchy, partly frozen earth. Bunnie holds the box while she recounts her friendship with Ziggy. Gabriella and Iman graciously hang on her every word. Then Iman recites a poem as we lower the floral box into the ground and cover it with muddy soil. Gabriella hands Bunnie the smooth, flat rock they found on the way home, and Bunnie gently stands it up on the grave. The four of us stare at the ground until Bunnie declares that it’s snack time.

Bunnie concentrates on not being sad. Every move is purposeful and conscious to distract herself from the thought of never seeing Ziggy again. She prepares a platter of cheese and crackers and grapes and watercress, and the three girls sit down to watch cartoons.

The front door opens, and I’m surprised to see Mom home so early. In turn, she’s surprised that the house is so quiet with three eight-year-olds in it, so I tell her they had a rough math test.

After her friends leave, Bunnie knocks on my bedroom door.

“Cora, why did the coyote eat Ziggy?”

I close my laptop. “Because of the circle of life. When an animal dies, it can give another animal new life. Nature keeps going around and around like that.”

She scrunches her nose at me. I try my best to explain it without all the scientific details. There’s gotta be a nature documentary or Disney movie I can put on for her instead. She’s trying to keep up, but she’s still upset about losing her friend. She thanks me and heads off to bed. I spend all night staring at the ceiling, wondering what she’s dreaming about.

On Saturday morning, Bunnie and I are eating cereal on the couch, and Mom takes a work call on the deck. When she comes back inside, she asks Dad “Was there always a big rock in the backyard?” He just shrugs and pours his coffee. Bunnie winks at me, an awkward wink that curls her lip and makes her mouth hang open, but a wink nonetheless. I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all week. The kid’s gonna be fine.

In a few weeks, the sun will be up before us, buds will form at the tips of branches, and more rabbits will visit our backyard, not knowing that one of their kind is buried under the patchy grass. But Bunnie will know, and with time, it will simply be another one of our sister secrets. She can trust that — just like we trust the promise that spring will always return.