Today – early, while it was still dark – my first pet died
in a small, dim clinic at the bottom of Ngauranga Gorge.
Her name was Lily, a cartoon-cute white rabbit with long ears
that showed her baby pink skin. She was demanding and curious
and not very clever. When she sat still, she swayed slightly,
like poor-sighted animals do when they are trying to focus.
I had stayed up late the night before, sitting on the cold tile
of my parents’ porch, massaging the swell of her belly.
I waited for the heavy lift of her abdomen.
Checked again and again for her pulse. I put her in my lap
and she stayed there: no sharp kicks, no bites, no grunt.
We had taken her to the vet, ready to let her let go,
and they had kept her instead,
filled her with warm fluids under golden lights and
tried to ease the pain out of her, but they couldn’t.
An hour and three minutes later – when it was lighter,
warmer – my niece was born in a birthing unit in Lower Hutt.
By afternoon, she was home and I walked across
the window squares of sun on the wood floor, approaching
the animal of her as though I was scared she would run.
I held her and felt almost painfully present:
like the new, young sting of hand sanitizer in a paper cut.
I could close my eyes – the warm, slow weight of her
in my arms – and imagine everything was different.
She could be Lily: writhing and hungry and full of breath,
but she wasn’t. I opened my eyes,
said her name and felt lucky.