The poor little guy died this weekend.
I was up early Saturday morning to mow the lawn. As I walked by his cage, I remember seeing him sprawled out and thinking something didn't look quite right. Not being any sort of an expert of bunnies however, and considering I was on a mission to conquer my lawn, I gave it a quick thought and that's just about as far as it went.
Turns out something wasn't right. Not right at all. As you can imagine, Ryenne was devastated. Not only was she heartbroken at the loss of her new little friend, she was upset at herself and thought it was maybe her fault somehow. This brought on a lesson by her dad about how sometimes, no matter what we do, animals get sick. Even Grandma and Grandpa, who care so well for their sheep, still lose some of them to no fault of their own. This was confirmed yesterday at Sunday dinner by Grandma, who informed us that they figure on about a ten percent mortality rate each year for their fluffy little herd.
Ten percent! That's not good odds, it seems to me. But, after all - I guess Mother Nature must run her course.
Yesterday afternoon Ryenne and her daddy dug a grave and held a short, but meaningful graveside service. No one else was allowed to attend, so I'm going strictly off heresay, but I am told that Courtney gave a few remarks on account that Ryenne thought it was "a little embarrassing".
And tonight Courtney comforted her with the suggestion that maybe next go-round, she could get a lucky rabbit's foot instead. Hang it on her backpack, perhaps? Or maybe a stuffed animal. This way she could even bring it inside. Invite it to sleepovers, even. The possibilities are endless I suppose.
Except for Thumper, that is. . .and all because of that darn ol' ten percent rule.