You’ve heard me talk about the loss of a pet. And how, if you don’t own a pet, perhaps you may not fully understand just how gut-wrenching it can be. As a lover of animals in the vein of St Francis of Assisi, who allegedly couldn’t even step on an insect, I’m still a bit surprised sometimes by the impact our pets have on us. St Francis went all in on his love of animals. Allegedly, he would pick up worms and move them off roads and leave out honey and wine for the bees in winter. I’m not sure you’d see me at my local IGA buying food to spread universally around Subiaco for the various animals, but I do know that the loss of our pet rabbit Kevin this week was much more jarring than I’d expected. There is a lady a couple of doors down from me who feeds the birds, a bit like the Bird Woman in the Disney movie Mary Poppins. Remember that memorable scene? It features the iconic, emotional song Feed The Birds, famously known as one of Walt Disney’s, and one of Barra’s, favourite songs. Anyway, back to Kevin. Kevvy was a Mini Lop, or Dwarf Lop, depending on which rabbit expert you consulted. He was a member of the family, a quietly reassuring presence whose personality and companionship had become part of the furniture of our lives. When I took him to the vet, I suspected things weren’t right. He’d been losing a lot of weight, and the examination revealed that his teeth were also preventing him from feeding properly. Age had caught up with him, and disease was taking its toll. The vet advised that it was time to put him down, which shocked me greatly. It’s a decision no pet owner wants to make, isn’t it? Even when the evidence is staring you in the face, you find yourself hoping there might be another option, another treatment, another week or two. Anything to avoid being the person who makes the final call. But rabbits are prey animals. Their instinct is to hide weakness and pain, because in the wild, looking vulnerable can make you lunch. By the time a rabbit visibly appears unwell, it may have been struggling for some time. That means we have to look carefully for the signs: a loss of appetite, dropping weight, changes in behaviour, reduced movement and a diminishing interest in the things that once brought them pleasure. Ultimately, you have to ask yourself a difficult question: is their quality of life still good, or are we keeping them here because we can’t bear to let them go? Kevin’s joy had sadly been overtaken by his pain. I didn’t think his passing would affect me as much as it did. Yet the loss of Kevvy weighed heavily on me and on the rest of the family. Funny how something so small can leave such a large hole. Euthanasia is, in a way, a gift. It gives us the ability to end an animal’s suffering when we recognise that life has become more burden than pleasure. Knowing when to make that call, though, can be extraordinarily difficult. The advice I’ve heard from those who care for rabbits is that it’s better to let them go a week too soon than a day too late. Waiting for the perfect moment can mean waiting for a crisis, which can be traumatic for the animal and its carer. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is let go. Of course, I recognise that if you grew up on a farm or in the bush, your perspective might be different. Recently, I read about Dockers coach Justin Longmuir, who grew up on a farm in Koorda, and his rather more pragmatic approach to animal welfare. When Longmuir was an assistant coach at Collingwood, star midfielder Steele Sidebottom missed training after spending the night at the vet with his beloved dog, who ultimately died. Sidebottom took the day off to cope with the loss and catch up on sleep. When he returned, Longmuir was reportedly bemused and in disbelief he took the day off because of the death. It’s a wonderfully blunt illustration of the difference between growing up with animals as working companions and growing up with them as members of the family. Neither background necessarily means you care more or less; it simply shapes how you understand the relationship. For me, though, when the time came, letting Kevvy go was an act of love, not surrender. And before I wrap up today’s column, some local wisdom for our readers, and it’s about human beings. It’s said that the average 60-year-old has about 18 years left to live. By that age, you’ve completed roughly 77 per cent of your journey, leaving about 6500 days, or just 930 weekends.
Use them wisely, people, maybe even cuddle a pet.