It’s 6:30AM, but I’ve already been up for over two hours. I went out early to do an eleven-mile loop through the hills of Pasadena and La Canada. While running near the Rose Bowl, before dawn, I came across a small wild rabbit that had just been hit by a car. She had one broken leg (with obvious massive fractures) and was sitting quietly in the road, helpless.
It was one of those “Oh God, why me?” moments. I’m ashamed to say that I stood there for a second, trying to decide what to do, fighting the impulse to continue my run and let another car — or a dog — finish the little creature’s life. But of course that isn’t what I could do. I sat in the road with her, talked to her for a while, and then gently stroked her. She tried to escape, ineffectually, and I could see she still had some life (as well as pain and shock) in her eyes. So I gently scooped up her broken body and carried her home. It was a mile and a half back home, and on that walk, I waited for the little one to die. So many wild creatures die quickly in these situations; prey animals usually relax into death quickly after major trauma, part of their defense mechanisms against enduring pain. But the little grey girl, so much like my chinchillas, nestled against me, still blinking, heart still beating, whiskers still moving.
With the Humane Society closed, I drove her down to my 24-hour vet in South Pasadena, wrapped in a towel. The after-hours receptionist started giving me a spiel about the office’s institutional reluctance to treat wild animals; I’ve heard that speech before. We had what in diplomatic circles is called a “frank exchange of views”, which involved my repeated requests to see the doctor on call while waving my Amex card with my free hand, insisting that I would happily pay all charges. The doctor did examine the little girl, and gave me the news I was fairly certain I would hear — the massive compound fractures were very serious, and though she still showed signs of energy, her chances of making a decent recovery from such a rear-leg injury were rare. Dogs and cats can do three legs; rabbits and chinchillas have a much tougher time when they lose a rear limb. The vet and I agreed to euthanize the rabbit, and that was done just minutes ago.
I’m still in my sweat-soaked, blood and tear-stained singlet. I’ve got to jump in the shower and go off and teach three classes, have coffee with friends after school, hit the gym for a make-up treadmill run in the early evening, dinner with other friends in the later evening, and chinchilla “out time” before bed. It will be a busy day.
I could not save this little creature’s life. But I did all that I could, all that I should have done. Death is part of nature, but cars aren’t. Had I come across an injured rabbit in the wild, I might have gritted my teeth and moved on, knowing that its little body would be food for a hungry predator soon enough. But where a human has inflicted the injury, a human must do the rescuing to the best of his or her ability. I could not save this rabbit’s life, but I know she died a gentler death than she would have otherwise. And though I know the terror that we people strike into small wild mammals, I am convinced that on our walk home, as I sang softly to the little broken girl in my arms, she found some tiny degree of comfort in the warmth of my body and the softness of my voice and the stroking of my trembling fingers.
I’m not sorry I missed my run today. I’m grateful I got the chance to be there for this creature to the best of my ultimately insufficient ability. In the end, all we can do is all we can do. I will have the feel of her weight in my arms with me for the rest of the day.
Note: I have now opened comments on this entry, but anyone who makes light of the death of an animal, or even hints at misplaced priorities, will find themselves banned.