Asfriends and roommates know,Ive been obsessing since the summerabout finding BunnyGeorge a homeless man in my neighbourhood with a little Pipplook-a-like named Wayne riding on top of his shopping cart.The bunny was his whole world. It struck a chord.
I met George in front of a pet store this past summer, sitting on thewindow ledge with Wayne in his arms, licking his fingers.George was dressed in a cowboy hat with the cuffs on his pants at leastfour inches above his ankles. Wayne, he said, was four yearsold. He'd had him since he was a baby. The bunnyhad obviously just had surgery, his shoulder area was shaved, Georgeconfirmed that he had been very ill and had been to the vet.He told me that he himself was also a vet, but then couldnt rememberthe name of the ailment that Wayne had. (He also said he wasa Texas millionaire, had 800 bunnies, and he had to go catch a plane toBuenos Aires but hed be back tomorrow. George obviously hadmental issues).
At first, George didnt really want me to pay much attention to Wayne,he later told me that people had tried to take Wayne or hurt him(although I got the impression it was unrelated to hissurgery). He made reference to some out-there conspiracytheory. I dismissed it at the time, but now Iwonderif he was being harassed bypetactivists as wellasteased (or worse) by thugs and neighbourhoodkids. He warmed up to me and became more communicative as wetalked about our bunnies. When I left, I told him I hopedtorun into him again.
I couldnt stop thinking about George and Wayne. I think itwas because of how much George loved his littlebunny. I really feared for him. I started casuallyasking about him at the pet store, each time relieved to hear his bunnywas in with him and both were okay.
Then I started actively looking for him, at least once or twice aweek. I wanted to give him a big bag of hay and pellets if heneeded some (the pet store let him run a tab, but they said he wouldntaccept anything they said was free), and make sure he was still beingtaken care of by a vet. I never did find out what vet he wasseeing or how he paid the tab.
I left my phone number with the pet store, and left messages -- andactually got one in return, saying (amid a bunch of weird stuff), thathed like it if I could bunny sit, or drive him to the vet if he neededto go there. The pet store lost the note, although they saidhe didnt leave a number, anyway not too surprising. Asgood as the pet store was to him, none of the clerks ever thought todial the number and hand him the phone, or call me themselves to tellme he was in (I was two blocks away). I always missedhim.They never remembered to ask who his vet was, either. (Imay be broke but my credit's good).
I bonded with a number of the other street people in my search, Idcheck in with them to ask, and theyd pass on messages, too -- butthese people dont have cell phones.
The street people weren't judgmental, but othersoften shooktheir heads about a bunny living like that. But I told themI couldnt disagree more. I cant imagine a better home forWayne even though he really didnt have a home atall.
When we had a snowstorm two weeks ago, I found myself again on thestreets walking around looking desperately for BunnyGeorge.
I still blame myself for not trying harder getting up earlier, staying out later, going out more often.
When I hit the pet store today, as always, I asked aboutGeorge. The clerks faces fell, and I knew. Waynehad died. George had been in a week ago with the news, stillin tears. He told them it was lung cancer, but who knows.
I said, Oh, too bad! I paid for my pet food, and went home. And completely fell apart.
:rip: So RIP little Wayne. And George...I don't have the words to describe how much I feel your pain.I'm so very very sorry.
sas:bigtears:
