I had always been fond of rabbits. My parents had kept them for my brothers when we were children, and during my stay in California I had had a pet pair that I obtained one day in an absent-minded way.
I was going shopping in Berkeley, and my sister said, “We need a coffeepot. I wish you would bring one home.” When I returned she asked for the coffeepot, and I was obliged to confess that I had forgotten it, but I had bought a fine pair of rabbits instead.
These two became great pets, and used to play about the yard with my gentle dog, Nita, but I had to give them away when I left Berkeley. On reaching Halifax, I at once got this little spotted animal, and subsequently bought a pretty gray one to bear him company.
My poor spotted rabbit did not live long. One of our fox-terriers, Jim by name, a young, enthusiastic romp, played so hard with him that he injured him. I put the unfortunate little creature in a box where he lay turning from side to side for a day, and then, in spite of brandy and oil administered in small doses, he died.
I have never yet found that brandy helped a sick bird or animal. Warm milk and oil are now my stimulants—that is, for simple ailments. For complicated cases, I consult our family physician, who is most kind in prescribing for my pets.
The boy from whom I bought the spotted rabbit said that a sick rabbit is a dead rabbit. I disproved this later, but by the death of this spotted one I painfully added to my stock of knowledge, and I resolved that never again would I allow a rabbit to play with a puppy as rough as the lively Jim.
After the death of Spotty, Rab, the gray one, seemed lonely with only birds for companions, so I decided I would get her some guineapigs to play with, and accordingly ransacked the city for them.
I could find none, but one day two little girls came to our door and asked for me. “Would you—would you,” they said in choked voices, “take our dear little guineapig? We know you want one, and we think ours would have a better home with you than with us.”
“My dear children,” I replied, “I could not think of taking your guineapig from you. Why, you are almost crying at the thought of parting from it.”
“Oh! we want you to have it,” they said, “but please don’t think we want to get rid of her. We just love her, but we know you will love her better, and it is our duty to do what is best for her, and not to think of our own pleasure.”