The Pet Lady


Recent letters [The Pet Lady, March 28 and April 4] have addressed the constant chewing-and-pooing that make a bunny (and, really, anyone) an unpleasant member of one’s household. As a wee girl, I was the proud owner of bunnies. Debbie met her horrendous screaming death under the accidental foot of my brother (did you know bunnies often “freeze” when frightened? And that having a small boy attempt to return you to his sister’s arms is very, very frightening?).

Brownie (the replacement) and her male companion Jack were moved outside into a deluxe two-story movable cage that allowed access to sunshine and fresh grass. There was a small, enclosed napping area, but the majority of the cage was constructed from metal chicken wire. Brownie and Jack spent their sun-and-grass-filled summer in domestic bliss, and announced the arrival of small Brownies and/or Jacks in due time. There was much hopping, pooing, and resting, and the future seemed bright.

At which point there was a vicious electrical storm, Jack dug a hole under the wire and abandoned his family, and Brownie gave birth shortly before their home itself was struck by lightning. She (and Brownies/ Jacks Jr.) did not survive. Jack was never seen again—assumedly, his descendants are still roaming the hills and valleys of rural Pennsylvania.

My point? Perhaps bunnies are just not meant to live as pets, indoors or out. Perhaps roaming free is their best chance for survival in this electrical world. Also, far from dissuading my brother and I from playing with electricity (as you suggested to A.D.D. [The Pet Lady, April 4]), we show a strong tendency to think of it as a “toy.” Pretty blue sparks! Fire! Painful shocking sensations! Neat! Never try to predict what lessons children will take from the death of their pets.

No More Bunnies For Me. Ever.


It is a not-so-funny yet somehow darkly humorous happenstance, dear Reader, this (yet another!) tale of lagomorphic electrocution! The Pet Lady is now thirsty and thus shall have a martini whilst we proceed directly to the next letter. Cheers!

Best to you and your brother,

The Pet Lady


Not that you asked . . . but your alcoholic banter gives me a headache. Not to mention it pokes fun at not-so-funny happenstances [perhaps referring to The Pet Lady, April 4, as this letter was postmarked April 5, though it is hard to say—Eds.]. Call me an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, but (being in the pet biz myself) I’d much rather see sincere and truly helpful advice—perhaps like your Easter bunny edition [The Pet Lady, March 28]—that encourages responsible pet care and discourages neurotic humans. I’m sure you have a generous following of equally dark-humored readers, but I say “ugh” to the whole thing. Give us less twisted, pedantic blather and more happy, productive stories.

Thanks a bunch,

A REAL Pet Lady


You are an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy.


The Pet Lady

Pet predicament? Send photos and letters to The Pet Lady, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104, or e-mail