I will never forget that summer back in 1972, when I was a child.  It wsa what I refer to as "Black Rabbit Summer" because at the time we had several black dwarf rabbits as pets.

I was eleven years old, just a young child; more than anything I wanted a pet of my very own, but because of my little brothers' allergies, a pet was out of the question throughout my early years.

Then my brother had a terrible asthamatic attack that killed him.  He was only seven.  His death tore me right in two; I was devastated.  My brother may have been a pest, but I still loved him, and I blamed myself for not being able to protect him.  I became very depressed.

Mother became concerned about my health, so she took me to the doctor's, to see if he could pinpoint what was going on with me.  That was when Dr. Cone diagnosed me as having depression (only back then, they had a different name for it).  Dr. Cone suggested that I get a pet of my very own because I was still grief-stricken about Carl's death.  He thought an animal might help me get better or, at least, come to terms with my little brother's untimely passing.

We went to the pet store.  While there were many wonderful animals to choose from, what really caught my eye were the rabbits on display.  Easter was coming, so the rabbits were the "featured pets of the week".  There were two of them, both midnight black, and no bigger than my hand: they were really tiny.  The pet store owner said that they wouldn't get any bigger because they were "dwarf rabbits", meaning they'd stay small throughout their entire lives.  

I begged Mother and Daddy for the rabbits.  To my surprise, they said yes, but only if I promised to take care of them, including feeding and watering them, and changing their cages every few days.

So that was how "Bugs" and "Beulah" came into my life.

I poured everything into caring for Bugs and Beulah.  They were everything to me.  I loved them as much as I did my brother and my parents.  They loved to snuggle up against me, first one, then the other, sometimes both, sometimes nibbling on my hair, or running (hopping?) crazily around the room in a fit of bunny-style joy.  They brought happiness and joy back into my world; slowly but surely, my heart began to heal.  While I would always miss Carl, I was at least able to accept his death and not fall apart each time his name was mentioned or whenever I thought about him.

I had Beulah and Bugs for six years.  They died when I was seventeen, on the cusp of graduating from high school.  Beulah died from pneumonia; her brother, meanwhile, died from eating a spatula, which, in turn, blocked him up.  There was nothing doctors could do.  I was very sad about the loss of both my bunnies, but even their deaths paled in comparison to losing Carl.

I think my rabbits helped me move on from child to near-adulthood because it was through them that I learned responsibility, comopassion, love, and yes, even acceptance of the inevitable, such as the death of a treasured family member.  So in my own special way, I say thanks to Bugs and Beulah, for giving me my happiness back; if it were not for them, I don't know where I would be today.