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Flecks, in the yard

During a routine blood draw today, Flecks became stressed out and died. He really didn't want to sit still for it. Maybe we should have paid closer attention. He got pure oxygen, two shots of epinephrine and the doctor massaged his heart for what seemed like twenty minutes, but nothing worked. He was gone.

Flecks was born into a litter of six. He wasn't the runt and in the beginning I honestly couldn't tell him apart from his other siblings. He managed to differentiate himself by breaking his leg at the tender age of six weeks. One evening the natives were scampering about the living room when one of them noticed a cat in the back yard. Suddenly, there was pandemonium! Six rabbits fled in all directions. Flecks was on the couch, so naturally he jumped down, but in his hurry he wasn't very graceful about it and managed to break his left front leg cleanly. The x-ray looked nasty.

Although he did survive putting up with a cast for a month, after that I began to notice him and his personality. He was not exactly like his father, but he shared certain qualities. His good looks and charm came from his father, but the rest was all him. When he was young, he was a lot feistier. He did not want to be held. He would kick and puff out his chest like a fearless warrior at anything he felt was a provocation. As the years grew on, he became very easy-going, just like his father. He took everything in stride, including the times when Grimey was grumpy. He even accepted being held.

He loved to be mischievous. He was always testing the limits. He was first to explore new places (always ready to run away, just in case) and was not afraid to disobey. Sometimes, such as when he insisted on padding through the kitchen just after I dropped a glass dish, I was exasperated with him.

He had a game he liked to play. He'd run up from behind while I was bent over cleaning the hutch and bump me on my rear with his nose. By the time I could turn around, he had run away laughing. I have a picture somewhere of him leaping with joy.

Despite all that, he was also a big chicken. Unlike his father, whenever he saw a cat, bird or even his own shadow, he would stamp his massive hind paws and run for cover. Oh yeah, his ears would perk up and his eyes would go wide if I mentioned the vet's name.

In his life he dealt with sore hocks and kidney problems, but he never seemed to complain or become bitter. As soon as he was well again, he was back to his usual antics. For example, whenever I came home from work, he would stand on his hind paws and yank the door to his hutch with such force. He wanted out! He wanted food! He wanted something! Now, damit! Whenever I would cut up veggies for their dinner, he was always so impatient. Lately, he would claw his way into my lap and try to steal a piece of carrot right out of my fingers.

Over the last couple of weeks, I first thought he was ignoring me when I called out his name. One evening when one of those giant C-4 jets flew over our apartment and he didn't flinch when Grimey did, I realized he might be going deaf. But his appetite was good and he was still his usual self otherwise. I chalked it up to old age.

Last Sunday, I noticed he was a little less rambunctious than usual. It was as if he was in a fog. On Monday, although he at first lunged for a piece of carrot, when he had it in his mouth he seemed to hesitate, then dropped it and left it. I also noticed very little water had been consumed since filling it that morning. We went straight to the vet. He received subcutaneous fluids, they took some blood and did a thorough exam. It seemed he might have had an ear infection, which would explain the loss of hearing. Otherwise, everything else looked OK. There was nothing to indicate cancer. I was relieved about that. We were given some medicine to stimulate his bowels and went back home.

In the next few days, the fog seemed to lift and he was definitely drinking more. He still wasn't eating as much and he was napping a lot. Grimey began to shadow his every move and would not let him out of her sight. Being born into a large litter, he gained a habit of grabbing and eating everything he could as fast as he could. He was eating more daintily and slowly now, but at least he was eating.

This afternoon the vet called to say we needed more blood. The ride to the vet was uneventful. In the waiting room, he was calm. He sat in my lap and didn't complain. All around him were dogs and cats who coughed or whined. He was always a kicker, but in the last few years it had been easier to trim his nails by myself so I assumed he wouldn't put up a fuss over the blood draw. But today, he just was not having it. He kicked and he kicked. The tech wrapped him in a towel and held him down. Just as the needle went in I noticed him gasping and his eyes began to bulge. Part of me wanted to yell out, "Stop it, he's freaking out!" but I hesitated. I don't know why.

As the tech drew out his blood and I was stroking his head, I noticed he didn't seem to be breathing. He was rushed to the back for emergency care, but I believe he was already gone by then. I held him for thirty minutes in a room next to a kennel where one post-surgery dog was barking and another was whining loudly while I stroked his head, told him I was so very sorry and he gradually became more limp, cold and stiff. That was very difficult.

Flecks was seven this year. We're going to miss you terribly, goober.

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