I’m a Rabbit
A postmodern tragedy
I was walking downtown in a small village to find some furniture. The furniture store in the town was well known, and I knew, despite the two-hour drive to get there, that it was the best chance I had to find a couch that would fit into my studio apartment. Knowing where the store was from experience allowed me to stroll through the town and enjoy the quaint sights the town offered before trying to find what I needed. However, my casual enjoyment turned to curiosity when I happened to notice an interesting individual leaning against the historic brownstone building of the town’s main intersection. The building he was leaning on was not far from my destination, so I decided to wander towards the individual.
As I crossed the road, the person began to form more clearly in front of me. I observed a tall man, covered in fur with prominent buck teeth, tall long ears, a dark snub nose and a bushy tail. I was puzzled and imagined that the detailed look must be a costume, but it was also apparent that this person had put great care into his appearance; I decided to speak carefully.
“How are you doing there, friend?” I asked with some awkwardness in my voice and gait as I approached. He smiled dismissively and continued chewing on a massive carrot while avoiding eye contact with me. But, I persisted, “sure is humid today. Do you find it humid?”
He smiled a second time dismissively, but this time he turned towards me and commented with irritation, “It’s even worse when you have fur.”
I saw my opening and clumsily prodded, “yeah, I noticed you had a fur,” I caught myself realizing that he had signalled that the fur was his. “I noticed that you have fur and thought you were probably pretty warm.”
He looked at me with some annoyance, obviously having picked up on my stumbled response. “I’m a rabbit,” he stated as if this assertion was obvious and needed no explanation, “of course, I have fur.” Then, he took another bite into his carrot and began looking at me with curiosity, “what’s your story?” He asked this question while looking me up and down with a slight grin as carrot chunks fell out of his mouth.
“I’m hoping to find a couch at that fine furniture store over there.” I pointed to the furniture store across the street while ruminating that I was speaking like a 1950’s dandy. It was evident by the sly grin on his face that he could tell I was unsure of myself.
“If you don’t mind me asking, have you always been a rabbit, or….” I didn’t know how to end the sentence, but he offered more of his story, thankfully.
“No! I was born a rabbit in a man’s body. It has taken me years to transform into what I am supposed to be. I had to undergo many surgeries, but thankfully I found a plastic surgeon that was more than willing to help me with my transformation, provided I had the money, of course.”
He began to open up, he wanted to tell his story, but his gaze signified my presence was suspect.
“It was costly, and that pisses me off. I mean, why wouldn’t health insurance pay for this? But they wouldn’t even respond to my correspondence.”
“Can I ask what was all done to help you transform?” I asked while hoping he wouldn’t be offended by my prodding. “My name is Brian, by the way.”
“Peter,” he snapped his name out. “I have had these four front incisors implanted,” he pointed with his carrot to the four huge buckteeth in his mouth. “I also had four other teeth removed so that I would have the right number, 28 and not 32. He yawned and sighed before rambling off the remaining changes. “I had all the hair removed from my body through many electrolysis treatments. Then I had tens of thousands of fur plugs, not hair plugs but fur plugs, placed across my body. These whiskers are also plugs,” he tweaked his whiskers like a mustache. “The massive tuft of fur surrounding my genitals and around my rear-end was particularly expensive, but clothing is just not going to happen; I’m a rabbit after all.”
I nodded with understanding but couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I had multiple reconstructive surgeries on my nose and ears.” Again, he pointed, with now half-eaten carrot, to his snubbed nose and elongated ears. “I have big feet, so no surgeries are needed for that.” He offered a wry smile, the first hint of kindness showed to me since we began speaking. “I also keep my claws long for my paws like any other rabbit and have developed pads on my feet from going shoeless.” I could only presume he meant calluses on his feet, but I didn’t challenge him.
“Wow,” I was genuinely amazed at how far he had gone, “can I ask how much that cost you, or, I apologize, it is none of my business.” I looked away at the furniture store.
“No, no, it’s alright to ask. I have spent about two hundred thousand dollars on my transformation, and I spend about ten thousand a year to keep it up. You know, with the ongoing fur transplants, a couple of Botox injections to keep my cheeks puffy; forgot to mention that one.”
“That’s a real commitment to becoming a rabbit.” I instantly noticed he was not happy with that comment.
“No, not a commitment,” he corrected me, “but me becoming what I am.” He was genuinely annoyed with my insinuation.
“I am sorry, Peter, I apologize. I didn’t mean to offer any offence.” But, unfortunately, my apology wasn’t enough, and I could tell he was about to vent on me.
“Everyone is the same! My parents, old friends, everyone! How hard is it to understand that I have always been a rabbit, and I am just getting my body consistent with that?”
“I am sorry, Peter. I can only imagine it gets old always explaining yourself to others….”
Peter cut me off mid-sentence, and it was obvious he was thinking out loud. “I don’t talk to any of them anymore. They don’t understand me, and they never will.”
I tried to recover, “maybe you should have your doctor, you know the plastic surgeon you spoke about, have them speak to your family and friends.”
He looked at me again with utter annoyance, but this time he rolled his eyes. “That doctor is a dick with ears. I went to him a few weeks ago to talk about this mole on my ear,” he pointed to his earlobe, “this guy tells me I should ‘have it biopsied because it looks like melanoma.’ So I asked him how common is melanoma on rabbit earlobes, and he says, no joke, ‘rabbits don’t have earlobes.’ Can you believe it?”
I didn’t know how to respond, and I just stood there with my mouth agape.
Peter took my expression as a confirmation of his exasperation. “Right?! I mean, either I am a fucking rabbit, and I don’t have earlobes, or I am the one rabbit in this world that does. But to say that rabbits don’t have them, I mean, God!” He was genuinely upset now. “Anyway, I looked it up, and rabbits don’t have earlobes, so I don’t have earlobes.” He looked down at the ground, “I’m a rabbit,” he quietly mumbled to himself.
Feeling concerned, I offered, “You could just do one more surgery and have the earlobes removed.” I shrugged while trying to coax an affirmative response with my eye movements.
“These flaps of skin,” Peter grabbed at his earlobes, “I saved a bunch of money, but apparently, these things on my ears can’t be removed according to the surgeon because of the thickness of the skin around them. So anyway, after the fight we had, when he implied I wasn’t a rabbit, he has refused to return my calls. I’m not going to other doctors because I’m not putting myself through that again, so I am sure it’s fine.”
I couldn’t hide my exhaustion at this point in the conversation, and I still had to order my furniture and drive home. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Peter. I should get going before the store closes, but I wish you all the best.”
Peter nodded, waving me away while opening the door to the old historic brownstone. I guessed that he lived in the apartment above.
I began to cross the street when he hopped loudly towards me. Startled, I turned around, not knowing what to expect.
“Do you have an e-mail address?” Peter asked.
I was surprised and without knowing what to say, “Ah, yes, it’s here.” I gave him a business card with my work e-mail on it.
He smiled and hopped back to the door leading to his apartment.
I walked around the furniture store for a while looking for a couch but couldn’t direct my thinking away from Peter. Eventually, I found a sofabed that felt obvious for my apartment. As I drove home, I wondered if Peter would ever contact me. What would I say if he did? Should I get involved? Ultimately, Peter never contacted me, and two years went by before the small town rabbit named Peter would enter my life again.
I was watching a movie when my cell phone dinged the sound that indicates a new e-mail has arrived. The e-mail was part of a chain sent out to many addresses with the subject line reading, “Re: Peter Ribbitoski.” My heart started to pound as I read the e-mail’s attachment:
“You are respectfully invited to attend the celebration of the life of our beloved son, John ‘Peter’ Ribbitoski. The ceremony will take place on the 21st of May 2017, 10:00 am at Cornella Funeral Home….”
Images of Peter flooded through my mind. I remembered his look, how he hopped towards me, and how he looked as he hopped up the stairs returning to his apartment. I didn’t know his last name at the time, but I knew now that this was the rabbit I had met two years earlier.
It was around 9:55 in the morning when I arrived at the funeral home, almost late for the service, but I quickly found a seat because only eight other people were attending. Seeing the poor turnout, I reflected on my attendance at the event, “why am I here?” I thought about this question as the organ began to play. My reasons seemed to come from a combination of curiosity and sympathy. Still, I felt guilty about my reflection and hoped the compassion I felt wasn’t just a virtue defence to offset my less than noble curiosity.
The ceremony was typical of most secular funerals, that is until Peter’s mother made her way to the podium for her eulogy. Mrs. Ribbitoski’s body language gave away the plot before she even spoke her first word. As she walked down the short aisle of the small funeral room, she had the appearance of a crusader. Her stride was confident, and her arms were stiff while she swung them like she was about to perform a soldier’s goose step. She thumped up the stairs with enough purpose to instantly command the room.
Peter’s mother was tiny and couldn’t have been much more than 5 foot 2 inches. She had grey hair and haggard but determined face. I guessed her age to be about 70 years.
She began, “MY SON WAS A RABBIT!” The room rustled, and the discomfort was palpable. “He knew as far back as the age of 12 years old, he never felt comfortable with other people, but that wasn’t his fault.” She paused for a moment to recompose, she was shaking, and her anger permeated the room. I noticed her look at an older distinguished man who sat with arms crossed while looking down at the floor with an intense but lost gaze. Her brief stare at him seemed to compel her composure again. “My child was special. The world should have recognized that, but five wanted nothing to do with him for every person who tried. What kind of world is this? What kind of world is it where a doctor won’t…” she stopped herself. “This world needs to change, we all need to understand what others need, and we need to be able to figure it out before they ask. That is what decency and kindness look like, not indifference and not insensitivity. FUCK ALL THOSE WHO HELPED MAKE THIS DAY HAPPEN!” The distinguished man gently shook his head, and for one second, he appeared to lose his composure showing some embarrassment.
Peter’s mother departed the podium with the same vigour she had mounted it with. She sat down next to the distinguished man, crossed her arms with a scowl on her face and looked intently out the window.
The distinguished man attempted to put his arm behind her, but she knocked him with her elbow, and he took the hint with stoic dignity.
The ceremony ended with the funeral director making every effort to bring dignity back to the service without inviting a fiery response from Peter’s mother; he knew better than to poke that hive. He was successful, and the funeral ended with a small procession into the waiting area. Coffee, a tray of cookies and carrots were waiting for the guests.
Standing as inconspicuously as possible, I leaned against a wall in the corner of the waiting room while drinking my coffee and chewing a giant carrot. Peter’s mother did not stick around; she had bolted out the front door with the same crusader stride she had displayed during the funeral. Nevertheless, the distinguished man remained as he watched her with a look of compassion as she walked out. Then he looked at me and smiled while walking towards me.
“You must be Brian?” He could tell I was surprised that he knew my name. “You’re the only one at this funeral I don’t know, so I wagered to guess.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Sir, but I must apologize; I don’t know your name.”
“Of course, I’m sorry, I should be the one apologizing; my name is John, John Ribbitoski. I guess you could say I am John Sr. John Jr., or Peter to most everyone else was my son.” He smiled as I shook my head gently to acknowledge his introduction, and then we both paused in silence, neither of us knowing what to say next. Then he broke the silence, “you’re probably wondering why you were invited to this funeral, Brian?”
“I won’t lie, Sir; I have been curious to ask.” I consciously stopped myself from saying more even though the questions were collecting like pollution in my mind. I let him speak.
“Most of these people, Brian, couldn’t stand my son. I don’t know how well you knew him, but he could be rude and, well, nasty. I hoped that since my boy felt the need to keep your card that maybe the two of you had been friendly. I hoped that maybe I could find someone that would attend his funeral out of a sense of sadness instead of a sense of obligation. I didn’t want my wife and me to be the only people at this funeral feeling sadness. How did you know my son?”
I spent the next few minutes recalling my meeting with Peter while John Sr. listened intently and with an ever-growing disappointment displayed on his face. Then, finally, he began to realize that I hardly knew his son.
“Can I ask, Mr. Ribbitoski, how did Peter die?”
He shook his head at the question and let one tear struggle down his cheek. “Peter died of cancer. It was melanoma which began on his earlobe and a disagreement with a doctor…” he stopped and shook his head with a slight flash of frustration across his face. “You know my son believed he was a rabbit?” He smiled gently, observing my confirming nod. “Peter’s need to believe was blinding, and when the doctor tried to explain that the melanoma on his earlobe was not something that a rabbit would ever have, Peter exploded and wouldn’t listen to him anymore. The doctor was correct; of course, rabbits don’t get melanoma of the earlobe because they don’t have earlobes. But Peter wouldn’t listen. He refuted everything the doctor said, and instead of starting treatment, he chose to save his money to have his earlobes removed. In the end, Peter was unsuccessful, but the time he spent ignoring and fighting with the doctor allowed his cancer to metastasize. He ignored all the symptoms, and despite the pleadings of his mother and me, he did nothing because he didn’t want to face further insinuations that he might not be a rabbit. As you could see, my wife has been struggling with all this.”
John Sr. smiled at me again, and that is when I realized his story had stunned me to the point that I was standing, again, with my mouth agape. I closed my mouth and apologized for my rude look, “I’m sorry, Sir, I just am trying to process that story.”
He nodded his head reassuringly, “don’t worry, Brian. Honestly, it is alright, and I know it is a terrible and unusual story to hear. I have told it many times and struggle to believe it myself most days. You see, I don’t know how much Peter believed he was a rabbit, but he desperately needed others to believe it. He needed them to suspend their reality and adopt his, not in a symbolic but biological sense. If they didn’t fully believe Peter was a biological rabbit, Peter couldn’t cope with being around them. He would treat these people-many were loving relatives that wanted the best for him-like they had assaulted him or done some other physical violence to him. Eventually, they felt the lash of his tongue or his manipulation enough to avoid him entirely.”
I continued to listen intently but remained careful not to interrupt. I realized that this man, this kind man, just needed someone to talk to; it turned out that I was the most fitting person he could find.
John Sr. gestured to a chair, and we both sat down. “Brian, I had no issue with my son wanting to be a rabbit. My perspective is that a person should be whoever they want to be-that is personal freedom. But my son didn’t realize that the radical freedom to be whatever he wanted comes at a price. The price is that he must tolerate living in a free society that allows him to be what he wants while allowing others to disagree or even be indifferent to him. Freedom only works when it works for everyone.”
“Peter never found anyone he could connect with?” I let this question loose because I wanted to know more. I wanted John Sr. to keep talking.
“My son was gifted with language and could argue with just about anyone. The problem is that he did argue with everyone. He only saw the world through his perspective and couldn’t appreciate that others might not experience the world as he did. I often tried to explain to him that reality is unknown and incomplete to all of us, and we use language and tradition to construct the truest shared experience we can.” He paused and looked out the window, “I think we all need the connection that comes from recognizing a shared reality. Peter could never understand this. You see, Brian, Peter wasn’t isolated by others, but was isolated by his approach to others.”
John Sr. was still looking out the window, and it became apparent that he no longer needed me there to listen. He was having a conversation with Peter now, or at least the conversation he wanted to have. “Peter was never ok with himself, and I don’t know if he should have tried to turn himself into a rabbit, my wife seems to think so, but I, I don’t know.” He shook his head and looked back at me, “what I do know is this: whether he became a rabbit or not, he was never going to be ok as long as he tied his dignity to the acceptance of others. My boy needed to accept himself first, and I believe if he could have, then he could have softened enough to let those that loved him be themselves while loving him for who he was.”
I nodded my head, “I think that is about the truest thing I have ever heard, Mr. Ribbitoski.”
He put his hand gently on my shoulder and smiled, “Thank you, Brian. I have learned a lot from watching my son, and the one thing I now realize is that people have their pain, their difficulty, and this leaves little room for the problems of the rabbit next door. Even when people would agree with Peter, it was little more than consenting to his coercion. People would agree with him to make him go away.” He took his hand off my shoulder and stood up, noticing that several other funeral attendees were listening intently. He smiled at them, “this kind of agreement has no value. My son could only see his situation because his pain was a unique and isolating one, and he took solace in resentment, and that was his undoing. If my son had learned to be a rabbit for himself but also chose to be kind, thoughtful and forgiving to others, then I think he would have been happier; maybe he would still be here,” several tears darted down his cheek. “Understand that I don’t criticize my son’s resentment because it was unfair to others, while that may be true, but because it was self-harming to him. He accepted the role of the victim instead of the role of leader or healer.”
I looked at the other attendees, many of which were now shedding tears, and realized that I had tears rolling down my cheek as well. It was then that I smiled at a pleasant-looking older woman. I felt that this was an excellent signal to leave; Mr. Ribbitoski looked exhausted, but he also looked at peace: he had eulogized his son and brought some compassion to Peter’s life that the other attendees could accept as truthful. I wished him the best and offered my final sympathies to him. We parted with sincere smiles.
It has been years since I attended Peter’s funeral, but I have yet to have another experience as moving and educational. I wondered what Peter’s life would have looked like if he had embraced the world, good and evil? Could he have done so? Did he even want to? I also wonder if he ever thought about e-mailing me, and would I have had the courage to tell him what I thought? Would I have been able to tell him that I didn’t believe he was a rabbit but that I respected his desire to live like one? Would I have been willing to tell him that it doesn’t matter what others think as long as he grasped who he was? Would I have been willing to tell him that not minding the opinions of others doesn’t mean he must isolate himself? I considered my own record with some of these questions. But it is too late for any of those conversations now; Peter is gone.
I recently attended Peter’s gravesite to lay some flowers to commemorate our meeting and respect this chance encounter’s impact on my life. After laying the flowers, I read the epitaph on his grave for the first time. It read as follows:
“To be a rabbit, strong and free,
You mustn’t fuss about the snakes,
And you must care about thee.”
I presumed Peter’s father wrote the poem; I wondered if Peter’s mother understood what it meant?
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons and places living or deceased is purely coincidental.
Copywrite September 6, 2021, The Autumn Tree Publication, https://autumntree.medium.com/im-a-rabbit-a5aec8193a57
