We Ate Our Pet Rabbit

We ate our pet rabbit. Not the cuy (Guinea pig), I mean, we ate that too but that wasn't a pet. 

 

My mother came home from work last Thursday night and went straight to the roof, as she usually does, to coo at and feed her fluffy gaggle of bunnies.  Instead of the usual baby talk, I heard a wail. She came down to the kitchen to explain to me, in lots of Spanish words I didn't understand, that one of the bunnies was sick (I eventually came to understand). She drew a line across her neck, insinuating what was to happy next. She almost cried. 

 

She called for Javie, my eleven year old brother, ten times before he answered, as usual. 

"Help me," she said. "We gotta do the deed" (not an exact translation). 

"Bumsquats" said Javie (not an exact translation). 

 

I went to bed and played Two Dope Queens (great podcast, highly recommend it) loudly to cover up the sound of scrambling, pots clanging, and maybe a bit of crying. 

 

The next morning I woke up to the sound of meat frying. 

 

Pet bunnies are yummier than cuy, turns out, and not that unlike chicken. 

 

Several days later I was washing my clothes in the kitchen sink, as I normally do once a week. I went to hang up my sopping undies when I ran into a pair of bunny ears, dangling on the line casually, like a fluffy off white blouse. Surprised, I tried not to shudder. I instead patted it on its nonexistent head, remnants of its jaw still attached to the skin and whispered, "hey there, old friend."