When the flurry of orange fur finally settled like atomic dust, the remnants of a particularly feisty brawl were scattered across the carpet. A shower of sunflower seeds fanned the foyer like the spent shells of bullets. The red plastic broom & dustbin remained where they had been violently thrown. And a pot-holder, slightly torn, lay between them.
In a nearby cage, Kobie nursed his broken whiskers and bruised pride.
A girl had kicked his ass.
As if last month's trip to the vet and the ensuing neutering wasn't de-masculating enough, now the little orange bunny underwent a thorough no-holds-barred attack by the slim young thing promised as his companion. Her presence was supposed to fill the void where his manhood used to be. (No irony intended.) We were not advised of the grrrl-power wrath of sweet Clementine.
Their love story began in a less violent manner, their initial courting one of curiosity and muffled excitement. It was that December day at the Seattle animal shelter, where Kobie had come to visit, when he first set eyes on her. Their gaze locked from across the room, her white-chocolate spots to his pumpkin rum. Once she was freed from her cage, they gamboled about the playpen, circling one another joyously. They lay nose to nose for a full five minutes. And Clementine even began to groom his silly, tireless seal-point nose. The relationship looked promising.
So what went wrong with our lovely duo? Our partners in crime? Our Bunny and Clyde?
Perhaps something went awry at the veterinarian last week, where Clem spent an afternoon in surgery, nixing the possibility of creating future generations of little orange and white-chocolate spotted bunnies. During their seven minutes together, she and Kobie had discussed the possibility of raising a family. Neither of them was keen on sharing their stash of sunflower seeds and banana chips. Kobie neglected to mention his questionable masculinity; it seemed unnecessary given the circumstances. And so Clementine the white-chocolate spotted, the black-masked, the seasonally sweet, was spayed and delivered to her new home in a cardboard box Monday.
Clem and Kobie communicated in nose twitches through the bars of their respective cages from across the room. They longed to hop together off into the sunset. So last night, her stitches supposedly dissolved and hormones under control, Clementine poked her head out from inside her carrier to reach out and touch Kobie, her one true love.
The violent drama that ensued was obscured by a wild tornado of orange and black & white fur. Kobie barked like a Rottweiler on crack. Clem chased him spastically and relentlessly around the room, throwing her five pounds on top of his three to claim him as her territory. They squealed and tumbled and kicked like two streaks of evil lightning. Through the repeated thumping of hind feet, teeth gnashed and nails met their target.
I intervened with a pot holder and a broom. Our squalling orange protagonist was scooped from eminent danger by his hind legs and deposited safely within the confines of his den. Clementine then raced to the side of his cage, gave one last bite through the bars, and unceremoniously began eating a pile of sunflower seeds that had plummeted from a table during the fray.
Things are not looking good. Round Two is scheduled for next week, when the raging hormones of our sweet Clementine will have abated enough for her to accurately judge the worthiness of her chosen life partner. Maybe it's a good time for him to disarm her with the whole "questionable masculinity" thing.
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