Chapter Seventeen

In the morning, I wake to the familiar sound of Cuddles sipping from her water bottle. Thank goodness. The little metal pipe makes a reassuring clicking sound as she licks it to get the water.

I’m out of bed and next to her cage. “Feeling better?” I ask in a quiet voice. “Did you eat anything?”

I look at her food bowls and my heart drops. All three bowls are still full. She hasn’t touched her hay, her bunny food, or the carrots and apples and greens. In fact, the apples look brown and yucky and the greens are wilted. I check her litter box and there is just a little urine and hardly any poop. The few droppings that are there are smaller than usual.

“Come on, Cuddles. I’m glad you’re drinking, but you have to eat. And poop, too. Doctor’s orders.” I open her cage, pet her a little, remove the apples and greens, and latch her cage closed again.

Dad and I are supposed to go to Stream Cleanup Day. Josh camped out at David’s last night, and they’re probably riding bikes to the cleanup site already.

“All ready, Jules?” Dad asks as I enter the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I think I’ll stay home and watch Cuddles. She still seems a little down after her surgery.”

“Oh,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

Mom looks up. “Something’s wrong?” she asks. Is she concerned about how Cuddles is feeling, or is she concerned I might not be a responsible pet owner?

“Well, I’m doing everything Dr. Mac told me,” I say. “And Cuddles is drinking her water, but she is not eating much yet.” I don’t say I’m worried because it looks like she hasn’t eaten at all since yesterday morning.

“Didn’t Dr. Mac say that’s normal after surgery?” Mom asks.

“Yes, but she also said I should offer her treats and watch her to make sure she’s eating and using her litter box,” I say. “I don’t think I should be away from her all day. Sorry, Dad, I was looking forward to cleaning up the stream with you.”

“I’ll go with you, Daddy!” Sophie says as she jumps into Dad’s lap and grabs him tightly around his neck. Dad hugs Sophie back, but he raises his eyebrows and looks at Mom.

“Maybe I’ll go, too,” Mom says. “I’ve been stuck indoors all week getting the books set up for the store. It’ll be great to be outdoors for a change. And help out with a good cause. Jules, are you sure you won’t join us? Will you be okay alone?”

I nod.

“Yay! We’re going to the stream.” Sophie shouts, and runs to our room.

“Sophie, not so loud!” I say. “Cuddles needs calm and quiet to recuperate.”

“Sorry,” Sophie says, then I hear her whispering loudly to Cuddles, “Bye, Cuddles, see you later.”

Soon Mom, Dad, and Sophie are racing up and down the stairs to the store, then back and forth to the car in the alley, loading up plastic bags, shovels, boots, and flyers about the grand opening of Wrenches & Roses. I’m sad I’m not going with them, but when they finally leave I’m glad the house is quiet. I bet Cuddles is, too. I wash and slice a new apple, a few sprigs of parsley, and some celery leaves and return to my room, hoping to find Cuddles already eating her hay or bunny food.

Oh no! The latch is undone on her cage door. The cage door is completely open, and the cage is empty. Cuddles is gone!

Sophie must have unhooked the latch to pet Cuddles when she said good-bye, then left it completely open. I close the bedroom door. “Cuddles, here, Cuddles,” I call. She must still be in the room. I look under the beds, behind our desks, and in the closet that Sophie left open, too. I look everywhere in our bedroom, but I can’t find her. I run to the hallway. All the bedroom and bathroom doors are open, so I close them all and check the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room first. Not a trace of her. Not even a single little dropping. Now I’m really worried.

“Cuddles, Cuddles,” I call again, even though she has never come when I called.

I check the bathroom and carefully search my parents’ and Josh’s bedrooms. I hope she doesn’t chew a cord, eat something poisonous, or injure herself hopping around. Then I remember the stairs and door to the back alley. It was open when Mom, Dad, and Sophie were running up and down getting supplies for the stream cleanup. What if Cuddles got out? Could she have hopped down the stairs when no one was looking?

I should call Mom and Dad. I need help. Did they bring their cell phones? But wait. What if Mom thinks I’m a bad pet owner?

How could Sophie leave the latch open like that? Okay, think, Jules. When did they leave? Just five or ten minutes ago. Cuddles couldn’t have gotten far.

“Cuddles, Cuddles, where are you?” I whisper. I race to the stairs and go up and down them twice, trying to decide what to do. I look out in the alley and catch my breath. I don’t think she could have gotten down the stairs after being sore from her surgery. Not without anyone seeing her.

I’ll never forgive Sophie if something happens to Cuddles. I’ll never forgive myself. I shouldn’t have shown Sophie how to open and close the latch. I should have reminded her to close it every time. I should have double-checked.

I have to keep looking. If I don’t find her in five minutes, I’ll call Mom and Dad.

I get the cordless phone from the kitchen. I check the clock. Back to my bedroom. That’s the last place I saw her. I squat down near her cage. I have to think like a rabbit. If I were feeling sore and groggy, what would I do?

Eat? No.

Run away? No.

Hide? Yes.

I lie on the floor and try to look at everything from Cuddles’s point of view. Under the beds would be good, but she’s not there.

Four minutes left.

I pick up Cuddles’s cardboard castle and put it on my bed. It’s bulky but not very heavy so I don’t expect to find Cuddles there, but I check each little hidey hole, tunnel, and room. No. No Cuddles. But oh no, maybe she was hiding there. There’s a drop of blood on the cardboard floor of the castle. Fresh blood.

I carefully pick up Sophie’s pajamas from the floor. No Cuddles, but another drop of blood.

Two minutes left.

I’m on my hands and knees, looking for more drops of blood. This is bad, really bad. It’s so quiet, I can hear my heart thumping. Then there’s a rustle in our closet. I carefully slide the closet door open, and there she is, sitting on Sophie’s robe, which has fallen to the floor. She stops chewing on the fuzzy collar of the robe and looks up at me.

“Cuddles, there you are.”

I am so relieved, but when I reach for her, Cuddles grunts at me and hops away. “Come on, Cuddles, it’s time to rest up now. You had me so worried,” I say, but Cuddles does not want to be picked up. Every time I reach for her, she hops away. She’s not as playful and as full of dancing hops as she was before she got spayed. In fact, she is slower, and she seems afraid of me. I close the closet door so she has one less place to hide. I close our bedroom door, too, and decide just to wait to see if she calms down. I put her water bottle facing the outside on her cage, and I bring her food bowls out, too, hoping she will feel hungry or thirsty after all her hopping around. I lie on my bed, talking calmly to her. And I wait.

And wait.

She finally stops hopping and rests on an extra piece of cardboard left over from her castle. I watch her from my bed. She sits very still for a moment but she seems to be panting a little. She used to hop all over the place, but I don’t remember her panting at all before. I’m worried. I have to catch her and confine her to her cage so she won’t exhaust herself. And I have to encourage her to eat and drink. After chasing her around the room for at least ten minutes, I realize she still hasn’t peed or pooped. I move very slowly from the bed, talking to her calmly. “You’re okay now, Cuddles, just let me help you into your cage.”

She doesn’t look happy, but she lets me scoop her up. “You’re safe now,” I say as I lift her carefully, supporting her rear end and chest and holding her close to my body. I can feel her heart beating very fast through her furry chest wall where I hold her.

“Don’t worry, Cuddles,” I say as I give her a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re okay.”

But I don’t think she is okay. Her ears are super hot against my cheek. I’ve petted and nuzzled my cheek against her ears before and they were never this hot. I look down at the cardboard, and there is a smear of fresh blood on the cardboard where she was sitting. And not just a drop or two. Cuddles is bleeding.

I’m afraid to turn her or hold her up high to see her belly. I don’t want to frighten her. Her heart still feels like it is beating too fast. But I need to see the incision site. I carefully carry her to the bathroom and stand in front of the big mirror so I can see her belly without agitating her. The site of the incision looks way worse than when Dr. Mac showed it to me yesterday afternoon. Now it looks like some of the stitches have come undone. Her skin is all puffy and swollen, and there is more blood.

I get a clean, dry washcloth to hold against the wound.

“Okay, okay, Cuddles,” I say, trying to reassure her and myself at the same time. “We’re going back to Dr. Mac’s right away. You’re going to be just fine.” But I’m worried as I carry her carefully back to her cage, set her inside, and hope she’ll lie down on the soft washcloth. She doesn’t.

“Here, drink some water,” I tell her as I re-arrange her water bottle so the spout is back inside the cage where she can reach it. “Drink some water, Cuddles,” I say desperately. “I think you’re too hot. It’ll cool you down.” But she moves away from the water and me. She crouches in the back of her cage like she did yesterday, only now she is panting, and it looks like her body is starting to shake in little tremors.

I call the clinic to tell Dr. Mac I’m bringing her in, but the phone just rings and rings. Finally an answering machine picks up stating their office hours and saying that Dr. Mac might be with a patient and to please leave a message. They’re open on Saturdays, but I don’t have time to leave a message. I slip on my shoes, grab Cuddles in her cage, and walk as fast as I can to Dr. Mac’s, all the while trying not to jostle her too much.

“You’re okay, Cuddles,” I say. “I know you’re going to be okay.”

But really, I have no idea if she will be okay or not.