My dear rabbit, James Dean, went to the vet today for what I refer to as "the chop". That's right, he went in, as my landlady hilariously put it, "James Dean" (deep voice) and came out as "Jimmy Dean!" (squeaky falsetto).
All of the men whom I mentioned this to in the days leading up to JD's surgery were outraged. "How could you do that to him?!" they invariably, indignantly asked. "You're taking away his manhood!" To which I spieled off the correct answers: he'll be healthier, it will calm him down, it will prevent possible spraying, he won't suffer from frustrated desire to mate.
And I believed it.
But I have to admit, when I got to the vet's surgery at the end of the day, and saw a subdued little James Dean huddled in a bunch, and took him away after the vet's chatty praises of his health and good temperament, I felt a little sad. And a little guilty. It was almost as if something had been taken away from him, he wasn't complete anymore, he wasn't a man.
Which he isn't, I suppose.
Just now I brought him a slice of apple and he'd perked up enough to nibble at it a bit. He's still huddled in soreness or sleepiness at one side of his cage. He can't be let out for a week, to minimize the chance of injury to the site.
By the time he's back up and running around, I'll feel less guilty. I hope. I know that I haven't done anything wrong to him. But it's a little sad that he's incomplete, now. I suppose he'll be better off.