Ruby My Dear – Part One

This is a love poem in the truest sense.

Where to begin? Of course it goes farther back than I can know, but my earliest memories in this life of Ruby are of a tiny brilliantly white creature that was small enough to comfortably fit in the palm of my hand. No words are going to do justice to the recollection of a life so noble, but I will try, knowing full well my efforts will sketch only a hollow portrait of one so solid and warm.

Ruby had been acquired by a girlfriend at a local pet store, some months before I met her. Elizabeth brought him home to live with a careless, sloppy golden retriever that was on the order of 100 times as massive as the infant dwarf rabbit. The one time I saw them together I was dumbfounded at the diminutive rabbit's courage to navigate the apartment with a bounding canine in reckless pursuit. Elizabeth's breakup with the dog's caretaker eventually gave Ruby the sole run of the apartment. Ruby's eyes were a lustrous pink that betrayed a depth not normally associated with the color. The moniker Ruby was Elizabeth's rather unimaginative contribution and led most to believe he was a she. For me, though, he was always the Rubester, Rubicon, Rutabaga, Rubart, or in intimate moments just plain Bug.

As Ruby grew bigger (he was never more than eight or nine-inches long) he was able to easily hop up onto couches or beds where he would then linger anxiously at the edge before jumping many feet out into the room to get back to the floor. He was lightening quick and with the rising of the sun would carve mad dashes throughout the carpeted areas of the apartment. Come on sleepy heads, let's get a move on! The linoleum-covered kitchen and bathroom held no allure as they provided little purchase for his already slick feet and nails. His fine-felt ears, soft nose, and cotton-ball tail were black and striking against an otherwise white coat. But these are merely physical descriptions and early on it became evident that Bug was a special bun that could not be encapsulated by his corporeal guise.

Elizabeth, who had suffered through various physical and mental abuse in her childhood was finding it hard to deal with troubling memories that would come calling unexpectedly and uninvited. These tormenting visions could appear in the middle of an unseasonably warm Fall day while reading a book on the lawn or in the chill of Winter under the darkness of extra blankets. The more she came into her own as a young adult the more the doors opened to memories from childhood of abandonment and betrayal that she had kept safely locked up while still living with her parents. While her therapist was encouraging her not to repress these nightmarish memories pulled from her Pandora's box, it was devastating to watch their brutalizing emotional impact. The otherwise peaceful apartment we shared would become a battleground site as I was sucked unwittingly into the vitriol that frequently accompanied the attacks. Ruby would thump his feet in protest at these outbursts, but was ready in a heartbeat to avail himself as a comforter in the aftermath.

Ruby maintained the heart of a lion throughout Elizabeth's dramatic mood swings and would press up against her when she sobbed uncontrollably by the side of her bed, or push his head reassuringly into her when she assumed a fetal posture on the floor. My own impulse was to run, to apply a quick healing touch, or to council Elizabeth rationally – let's solve your problems in a logical manner I thought. My attempts to comfort her with hugs were small solace in the vast sea of doubt and emotional turmoil in which she found herself drowning. But I was to learn much in those months from Ruby's tireless (and silent) administration of unqualified love. I could never fully emulate his example, but it was instructive nevertheless. Elizabeth, for her part, would return Ruby's affection with marathon petting sessions that could last from evening into the night. Ruby would stoically soak in the attention – likely long after any interest in being stroked had passed. He allowed his body to be used as a vehicle of comfort without reservation. Ruby was patience incorporated.

When Ruby was little over a year old Elizabeth decided he should have round-the-clock company and without consultation purchased two hamsters that were to become known to us as Amber and Pearl. While the two little ones would grapple with death-mask intensity, Ruby was unceasingly accommodating of their introduction into his space. My 'reasonable' fears of a territorial bloodbath were replaced by scenes that could easily find thier place in a Ripley's cartoon. Let me elaborate. Ruby was a true consumptive fan of all things food and otherwise (i.e. carpet and cords). But his passion was for chocolate Tofutti ice cream and Tofutti Cuties ice cream sandwiches. One night after ingesting my usual four or so Cuties I offered a fractional corner of one to Ruby who seized upon it with wide-eyed zeal. Amber and Pearl were enjoying their nightly run outside their plastic-tubed cage and it was Pearl that first caught scent of something sweet in the air. Driven by a gastronomical demon he repressed all concerns of physical preservation and charged upon Ruby's treat. Ruby with complete equanimity surveyed the invasion with the poise of a lotus. Pearl, leaning back on his hind legs, preceded to snatch up the dessert in his minute, pinkish, monkey-like hands (front paws?) just centimeters from Ruby's nose. Ruby never flinched, tensed or bolted. He calmly watched as Pearl devoured the morsel was only slightly smaller than his head). Truly the stuff of legend.

Ruby taught patience and to let go unreservedly. I'm still learning.

Any clothes left on the floor were subject to Ruby's signature bite marks. He seemed to delight in labeling clothes with but a single hole-producing chomp. I complained to Elizabeth, but she only pointed out that the clothes shouldn't be kept on the floor in the first place. As I was slow to reform my slovenly ways soon my entire wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans eventually bore Ruby's seal of bite-worthy approval.

At some point the normally buoyant Bug became a bit sluggish for a few days, then almost immobile before Elizabeth rushed him to the vet. A large stone had developed in Ruby's gut making it almost impossible for him to pass urine. The doctor's marveled both at the size of the blockage and the fact that Ruby was still functioning at all. Surgery would be expensive and dangerous the doctor's warned, but Elizabeth immediately gave the go ahead and then we waited and prayed. The call came later in the afternoon that he had come out of surgery, but wouldn't be able to return home until the following day. I fretted thinking of Ruby in a cold metal cage with whining cats and whimpering dogs as neighbors. When Ruby returned he looked to be half his previous size and as if he had been through a battle in which he had come face-to-face with Death. In retrospect I think that Elizabeth and I had no right to expect Bug's survival from the risky surgery. I think Ruby returned not for himself, but simply because he felt his work with us was left incomplete. Over the next few days his appetite returned and with it his elevating disposition.

Ruby taught to bear pain with dignity. I'm still learning.

Periodically Elizabeth would bathe Ruby in the bathtub. This was an involved process that required Elizabeth to don a bathing suit and then hold Ruby firmly to her chest while she lay in the tub. I would scoop the luke-warm water with a small vessel and pour it onto Ruby's back while Elizabeth shielded his eyes. What had appeared to be a well-proportioned dwarf rabbit would be reduced to a slender pink thing, too odd-looking to be compared to any known creature – save, perhaps, a mutated earthworm. Rabbits generally don't care for water and Ruby was no exception. His eyes would bulge with unease and his hind legs would scramble for purchase against Elizabeth's chest. When released from the water torture, Ruby would lumber off flicking his hind legs derisively in the direction of his tormentors. He would retreat to a far corner under the bed to let us know he didn't appreciate our bathroom shenanigans and then began a lengthy grooming process. The paws would be licked to proper saturation and then brought back over the head in tandem and drawn forward to the mouth causing ears to fold over and then snap back.

Ruby never was comfortable with being held or picked off the floor. At first I considered this something that should be overcome, but later appreciated this as a dignified part of his wildness that he retained for himself and to keep our relationship one of equals (I was never your equal, Bug). What Ruby did love, was to meet nose-to-nose and then have you slide up over his head and plant a kiss between his ears. A variation on this was to use both hands for a long slow stroke that would start at his nose, pass over his ears, massage his back and hind legs and finish just superior to his tail. This he would relish for countless minutes if not hours. A gentle scratch behind the ears was also favored. He was completely willing to listen to your woes provided you whispered them into his velveteen ears. His council was always silent and drawn from a deep well of presense.

Ruby taught how to listen, just listen. I'm still learning.