Our Son Holden

Now, Rod would reject the label "son" -- in reference to a pet rabbit -- but he's simply a distant father. Or perhaps Rod is still grappling with the issues surrounding adoption -- the fact that his son is not genetically his (though friends swear they'd never know the difference!).

We don't know much about Holden's early months: unwanted, he was abandoned in Olds at the onset of winter. I don't know what to tell him when he's old enough to ask questions; the best we can do now is to assure him that we're his "forever family" (provided Rod's allergies don't act up).

I happened to be visiting the Calgary Humane Society with Julie and her sons Benton and Joe. Our hearts went out to "Kermit" -- a busy, unsuspecting ball of chinchilla fur with ears that trailed on the floor like Dumbo's. (I think "dork" was the word Julie used.) Kermit's charms were evident: he climbed all over us in the handling room, even though Ben (only 8), was making the sort of spastic motions that ordinarily make animals scatter.

While Benton dissolved into tears (upon suddenly recognizing how many cats didn't have parents), I went to the front desk to casually "inquire" about Kermit. (You see, Rod and I had only "talked" about adoption in passing.)

The adoption counselor/social worker, upon discovering that I lived in Fort McMurray and would need to bring the rabbit home a.s.a.p., went to the back. The vet came out minutes later. She mournfully explained that although Kermit had, in fact, noticed some peculiar changes in his body (i.e. the growth of fur in private places), neutering was done for that day. I had arrived too late; my face fell and I could only hope for a miracle.

Before I knew it, the vet disappeared and reappeared with the statement, "Okay, he's in surgery."

"In surgery?" I exclaimed.

"At this very moment."

My heart went out to Kermit, whose testicles had obviously descended and was now facing the horrors of emasculation. If he was man enough to get neutered on the spot, I realized, I had to be man enough to adopt him on the spot. So I did.

According to his documents, Kermit almost "fully grown." "He won't grow much more," his teary caregivers said as they bid him farewell for the last time. "He's done growing."

As it turns out, Holden (as he's now called) had no intentions of stopping. His head was its adult size, certainly, but his body has since expanded like a balloon, as has his appetite. His dominion is our entire basement, where he manages a multi-layered apartment complex made of cardboard boxes. When hungry, he makes his needs known by flinging his metal dish across the cement floor.

He's a remarkable rabbit. He uses the litterbox, accepts his degrading pink leash without complaint (thanks Desiree!), and comes when called, his floppy ears forever flapping. Kermit . . . Holden . . . welcome home.