the last and saddest post.

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Buster Rosey (aka Busty, Mr. Toots, Bunchkin, Munchyface, Professor Chaos, Bust-A-Move, Bust-A-Rhyme, Quälgeist, et cetera) left his body on 23rd January, 2021.  He was ten years old, a master of both snuggles and antics, a discerning connoisseur of organic greens (Lacinato kale = good; Russian kale = bad), and an avid traveller—by bicycle, bus, boat, train, and plane. 

He was my teacher, my constant companion, and my familiar; beloved and wise far beyond his years or his size.

He died in my arms.

I’ve tried so many times these past weeks to write him a proper obituary, as befits someone who touched the hearts of hundreds, lived in four countries, survived five major operations, and was a constant source of solace and joy to those of us fortunate enough to be in his inner circle (for he was a severe, if benevolent, judge of character).

But every time, I’ve failed in that endeavour, and my attempts felt strained and awkward.  He lived a non-verbal life, albeit one full of happenings, and his journey is better described in imagery.  In lieu of words, below are some of my favourite pictures from the life of my favourite being.

Buster, though a grumpy old man from infancy, was selfless in his capacity to provide and inspire love and comfort.  If he touched you in any meaningful way and you feel called to pay it forward, please consider making a donation in his name to http://saveabunny.org.

He left the world a better and kinder place than he found it, which is more than most of us can say, though it is meagre comfort to an aching heart. He saved my life (truly; that’s not hyperbole, ask my therapist) twice. As long as I am living, I am in his debt.

My endless gratitude goes to everyone who helped to transform the life of an abandoned and abused rabbit into one of beauty and compassion. May we all be so blessed as to be so loved, and so missed.

From the cold of the North Atlantic…
…to the warmth of the Adriatic.
For years, we had a standing Sunday brunch date (pre-Covid). Mendocino.
Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, San Francisco.
Bringing sweetness to Syrian refugees, Berlin.
Post-surgery brunch, Mendocino.
Caprine snuggles, Oileán Chléire, Ireland.
Drowsy sun-bun, San Francisco.
He was appreciative of all games which were played on the floor, where he was more likely to be petted.
Enjoying dogless-Mendocino in early Covid days before the tourists descended.
Sharing dinner, Rome.
Helping in the kitchen, as per usual. Berlin.
Busty was always a big hit at markets, where he (and by extension, I) tended to be very well fed. Kotor, Montenegro.
Despite being a prey animal, he never hid from the world, always peering out of his basket inquisitively, preferring to see where we were going and where we had been. Cork City, Ireland.
Happy hour at the harbour, Oileán Chléire, Ireland.
The best cuddles, Monterey.
He was a regular. Dick’s Place, Mendocino.
He aspired to be a rug. Mendocino.
Adventuring, Berlin.
Gospa od Skrpjela, Montenegro.
Kisses every morning.
I may have modelled professionally, but he definitely could out-pose me.
He sought out flowers and naps wherever he went. Biesenthal, Germany.
Ever an adventurous eater, he never failed to sample—and appreciate— local cuisine. Wild grape leaves, Albania.
Day-drinking. Dick’s Place, Mendocino.
Posing, Gualala.
When we were homeless and slept in a van in the back woods of Big Sur, we ‘lived’ at Happy Girl Kitchen, Pacific Grove.
As part of his physical therapy after his femur reconstruction, I had to make him hop on uneven surfaces. Such as myself. Berlin.
No makeup. Berlin.
Family outing, Gualala.
All tilty before the first of four surgeries to remove his middle ear bones. UC Davis Veterinary Hospital.
He had no bad angles. Gualala.
Chilling. Dick’s Place, Mendocino.
Ballerina bun. Mendocino.
No green was safe from him. Mendocino.
Winning friends at the airport. New York City.
He did so love the ladies…
Foot warmer. Berlin.
Rose stalker. Gualala.
A conveniently-located mint patch, Croatia.

.

His Instagram account will remain (for now) online, if you ever need some bunny pics in your life: @thetouristandthehare. Beyond that, hold your dear ones tightly, and love them fiercely. We never get enough time.

Goodnight, sweet prince. Rest softly.

wordwanders

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there once was a woman who ran away

for thousands of miles and hundreds of days

she ran to be no more the woman who wanted

she ran to be free from a life that was haunted

she ran ’til she came to the edge of the sea

and asked herself there what she wanted to be

~

she said that she wanted to know her own mind

not only to seek but sometimes to find

she said that she wanted her heartbreak to mend

to live a beginning instead of an end

she said that she wanted to be whole alone

and to heal from the death of a dream of a home

~

there once was a woman who ran away

from wishing that someone would ask her to stay

but she found in the end that she ran to herself

for in circling the world there was nobody else

who would hold her and hide her and comfort her too

who would brighten her yellows and lighten her blues

~

so she held her own hand and she combed her own hair

and some words washed away but she didn’t much care

and she sang to the sea and the rain and the sun

and she felt the tide turn and she knew she’d begun

for the woman who’d set off to run away

found that she was the one place she wanted to stay

~

my mother sent me this e.e. cummings poem today, my thirtieth birthday…

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maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles, and

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea