At first it seemed ironic that Bryan Midnight, our silky little
Dutch bunny, should choose to die just one week before Easter.
We found him huddled in the corner of his cage, fur
unruffled—his nose still warm. He could
have been asleep.
But he was dead, and there was nothing to do but find a
gentle way to tell our children that their little friend would never again nip
bits of lettuce from their fingertips or bounce around after our other
household pet pretending that he, too, was a dog.
“Maybe we should just open the cage door,” I said, “and let
them think he hopped away.”
“No,” my husband replied, “It’s better for them to know for
sure where he is than to always have to wonder.”
I lined an old shoebox with a satin pillowcase; my husband
tucked the tiny creature in.
We gathered the children around, and I began tentatively,
the way my own mother had so long ago when my puppy died. “I hate to have to tell you this…”
Tears trickled down our oldest daughter’s cheeks. Another child raised his face as if to speak,
then bit his lip before a word or sob escaped.
The baby blew bubbles and patty-caked, while our 3-year-old
eyed the contents of the box with intense curiosity.
Then our 5-year-old summed the situation up with simple
eloquence: “Bryan Midnight’s going to
heaven,” she said. “He’ll be there by
Easter.”
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| Bryan Midnight's on his way to Heaven. |
