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"Oh no!" my mother said, while standing on our front porch, "Muffin
must have killed it." As I walked out of the house to see what she
was talking about, my mother pointed to a dead rabbit on the front
steps, most likely killed by our pet cat. "Let me get a plastic
bag to put the rabbit in, then we will bury it," my mother said
as she walked into the house. At the time I was only five years
old and this was my first experience with death.
As
my mother searched the house for a bag, I carefully approached the
dead rabbit and sat next to it. I began to pet its warm body and
was amazed at the softness of its fur, even softer than any of my
stuffed animals. With no visible wounds on the rabbit, it appeared
to only be sleeping. It was so perfect. I had to have it.
By
the time my mother returned with a plastic bag, I had already buckled
our cat's rhinestone collar around the dead rabbit's neck and was
dragging it around the yard by a leash. I had a pet.
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