— From PetsandPeople.org, 1998

The Abandoned Appetite

I love animals; my body doesn't. Anything with feathers or fur — from parakeets to puppies — sends me sneezing, wheezing, gasping for air. Sometimes as far as the emergency room.

As a boy, intent on avoiding hospitals, I sadly accepted my fate — petless for life. Or so I thought.

Several years ago, while working on a PhD at the University of Iowa, I spent Sundays volunteering at an Iowa City nursing home. It soon became apparent that as charming as I like to think I am, more residents would respond if I arrived with something cuddly, pet-able and non-threatening. Unconditional love with paws.

An excellent idea, I thought, except for one detail — my immune system would mug me. But after seeing too many vacant expressions one Sunday, I decided to borrow someone's pet, and hope an industrial strength antihistamine would at least keep me out of an ambulance.

A local pet shop manager agreed to volunteer her friendly cocker spaniel. Arriving to pick up my companion, I swallowed a pill.

As we chatted, a man stormed through the door. "I can't keep him," he shouted, "he's too much! You take him!" He thrust a gray and white furry ball on the counter. Floppy ears, twitchy nose — a baby bunny.

"Hey!" the manager objected. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I told you I can't keep him!" The man's voice escalated a few more decibels. "If you don't take him, I'm not sure WHAT I'll do with him."

The manager glanced at me. But before she could say another word, the man stormed out.

Without thinking I picked up the cuddly castaway.

The manager stared at me. "Didn't you say you were allergic to animals?"

Still cradling the young rabbit, it dawned on me: I felt fine. Not even a sniffle.

"Hmmm..." I wondered. "That antihistamine couldn't have reached full strength yet." It occurred to me I'd never touched a rabbit before. For some reason, rabbits were okay.

I noticed the pet shop shelves were stacked with unsold orphans. So on the way home from the nursing home I exchanged the manager's cocker spaniel for the abandoned bunny. But although I bought plenty of carrots, it soon became obvious this bundle of softness had a peculiar appetite.

During our first breakfast together the phone rang. As my new friend munched a carrot, I tried to hang up on a guy selling subscriptions.

Suddenly, the phone went dead.

"Cheap phone," I muttered. "Now I'll have to call the phone company from next door." As I turned from my desk the real culprit stared at me, telephone cord dangling from his still-moving mouth. "Ayyy!" I said. "What are you doing!?

Gazing at that innocent furry face I softened. "Well, a phone cord doesn't cost much."

After breakfast, surrounded by soothing music, I pored over a textbook.

BANG! A minor explosion shattered my concentration.

No music.

I traced stereo wires under my desk to the problem's source. "Ayyy! What are you doing?!"

Not yet lunchtime, I had a defunct phone and silent stereo.

The pet shop manager provided a crash course in Rabbit 101. She explained how to "bunny proof" my house — conceal wires, cords, cables. In other words, anything chewable below thigh-high.

But before I could, before I learned to think like a bunny, Ayyy assasinated another appliance.

"Ayyy." That's what I named him. After all it was the only thing I had called him. Maybe, I thought, his former owner hadn't always been irrational.

By Sunday it was time to introduce Ayyy to the nursing home. Strolling the halls I noticed that the residents who usually nodded indifferently or ignored me entirely, brightened as Ayyy appeared.

Our first visit, although pleasant, soon became memorable. Mary, an Alzheimer patient, sat statue-like day after day. Her husband's daily visits failed to move her. Even her grandchildren couldn't change Mary's mummy-like composure. "She's been like that for a long time," one nurse told me.

Linked to me by cat leash, Ayyy leisurely hopped the halls. As his furry form came into view, the frozen Alzheimer patient smiled faintly.

As I placed Ayyy on her lap, Mary seemed to thaw. Slowly she began stroking Ayyy. "She hasn't moved in over a year," her husband said. Several nurses gathered.

Maybe Ayyy resembled Mary's childhood pet. Perhaps Ayyy reminded her of a pleasant experience from long ago. At that moment only one thing seemed certain: Ayyy — the abandoned appetite, had rescued Mary - who'd been lost in plain sight.

© 2009 Bill Asenjo

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