One of the best places to unwind after a murder is in the bathtub, planning your next romantic getaway. In case you wondered about that sort of thing. I never really did, as I hadn’t previously considered traveling this road at all — and certainly not alongside my kids.
But then, who could have foreseen the events of that day? The intricate web of happenstance delicately interwoven with misplaced trust and just a touch of good ol’ fashioned roughhousing…
It all began when our good friend, Bobby, announced a fresh litter of rabbits on Facebook. An important point to remember here is that we — my partner and I — spent the better part of 2020 making a string of empty promises to our kids: a trip to the overcrowded water park, ice skating lessons, an afternoon of horseback riding.
Thanks to COVID-19, none of it was possible. Despite our best intentions, the pandemic continued to make liars out of us. We figured, what better way to dig ourselves out of the shit pile than an adorably huggable hasty purchase? (And actually, no money exchanged hands. The rabbit was a gift, free of charge — which somehow made the next 48 hours so much worse).
Chocolate officially became a member of our household on a wintry Thursday in November. Despite a hard campaign for Ruby, Isabelle, or anything other than a food ingredient, the name Chocolate won out. This was okay with me only because of that Stick Figure song, “Cocoa de Rock.” I took every opportunity to serenade the little fuzzball with her very own theme song and rebelliously referred to her as “Cocoa” for the entirety of her brief time with us.
Cocoa enjoyed a consistent supply of brussels sprouts and was even allowed to venture about the main level of our house. Cue poop nuggets everywhere, like impossibly tiny piles of cannonballs designed to kill a small leprechaun. The children, of course, adored her. Cocoa was a frequent VIP at tea parties, curiously sniffing at her fellow guests: a set of dinosaur figurines and a sparkly unicorn stuffy. Her manners left something to be desired, as she always left the party early in favor of exploring the area beneath my daughter’s bed or clothing piles strewn around her closet.
But the kids knew to make sure and return her safely to the cage when festivities concluded. We made sure of it. Speech after speech was given on the topics of “gentle petting” and “safe play practices.” Every sign indicated that they’d grasped the fine print. Alas, the biggest missteps in parenting occur in that untamed space of eventualities never considered. In other words, you don’t know what you don’t know until the shit hits the enchilada and your kids are staring at you blankly, their hands covered in feces.
Our enchilada was wrecked on the morning of Day Three, when my children yelled for help from the playroom. Assuming it was the usual “mine-not-yours” spat, I casually set aside my phone, on which I was perusing locales for an upcoming parents-only getaway. When I arrived on-scene, one thing was crystal clear: something was very wrong with our rabbit. Usually bunched up in a self-protective pose, Cocoa lay flat on her side, limp as a corn husk. With no idea what had transpired — or what to do — I wrapped her gently in a towel and cradled her like a baby.
While her face remained unresponsive, her body twitched every few minutes. Signs of life, I hoped. After a frantic Google search, we concluded that Cocoa suffered from shock. The question remained: why? A bit of poking and prodding uncovered the truth: that she had been surreptitiously placed inside a toy barn for safekeeping. The toy barn in question was, shortly thereafter, catapulted across the floor during a father-son wrestling match. Not a fun situation for anyone, much less a small, helpless mammal.
For the next 30 minutes, I cradled Cocoa in my arms as she convulsed. I did all the Internet told me to do. Kept her warm, supported. Every ounce of me prayed that she’d make it. And I sobbed like a baby when she let out a final shriek and the light evaporated from her eyes. I sat on the couch beside her dead body for what felt like hours, staring out the living room window, crushed by the fragility of our existence. Choked by the discomfort of my part in the matter, my failure as a parent. My offspring dealt the blow, but I was the one to blame. Neglectful. Irresponsible. They were too young. I was too lackadaisical.
We buried Cocoa in the backyard, next to the garden. The early fall ground was hard and frozen. Quickly, I set about covering our tracks, putting everything in the garage and out of sight — any shred of evidence that she’d ever existed. Though the kids returned to life as usual — their doughy brains unable to fully comprehend the weight of our wrongdoing — I simply couldn’t take the reminders.
I drew a bath, mindlessly scrolling vacation rental apps. It was difficult to imagine myself at each property, considering the fact that I couldn’t see them through the steady waterfall of tears. My mind wanted to shut off; to find distractions from the questions that loomed so large.
What had made me think we were ready for that kind of responsibility?
Did my kids even understand the gravity of the situation?
Are they destined to be cold, heartless murderers, with me enabling them every step of the way?
The bathwater grew cold like the ground outside. I got out, dried off, dressed. All the while, on mental repeat, a sexy saxophone riff played to a haunting chorus: “Cocoa, cocoa, cocoa de rock. Cocoa. Cocoa. Cocoa de rasta.”
