It was March. My rabbit, a Dutch named Bluebelle, was five. I got her when I was twelve. I didn’t spay her. I didn’t know I was supposed to, and even after I started asking about it, family members assured me she was fine, there was no reason to, she was too old. I got her as a show rabbit for 4-H, but we were almost inseparable. She was always perfectly friendly, ran up to me when I came up to the cage, licked my arms right up until they took her from me to put her to sleep. She had uterine cancer. She wasn’t acting right, and I noticed the minimal changes, but I was assured that it wasn’t enough basis to get her checked out. When we did, they told us it was severe pneumonia, and they kept her for the night. I was assured by the next morning that she was doing well, and for a couple days, she really was back to normal. She stopped drinking. On her last day, she didn’t even eat all her greens. It took a week and a vet across the state just to learn that she had cancer. We drove six hours total that day  for me to look at a vet and tell her she could take my rabbit. I opted not to be in the room. It had been a rough week, and I’d hardly slept. I couldn’t handle watching her be taken from me. I made the mistake of looking back when they took her. She was all wrapped up in a blanket, just her little head poking out. I was so convinced she was on the way to recovery, and it hit me like a train. In a few days, on October second, it’ll be what would’ve been her sixth birthday. I didn’t want another rabbit. I wanted a bird, a parakeet, anything else. But I have an uncle who breeds them, and you know how sweet the babies are. I ended up with an English lop. She’s not the same. I know she can’t be the same. I feel bad for her. I want to bond and be close with her, but I’m terrified of losing another rabbit.