I Survived!

First day back in the office in two years. Went shopping for clothes yesterday, because I'm pretty threadbare by now. Got my hair cut so I look somewhat domesticated. Couldn't sleep last night. Kept checking the clock, waiting for the alarm to go off, and finally gave up and got up at 3:00. Had to make an effort to remember which bus to take, only to find that the terminal at the other end had been relocated. Bit of a hike to get to the subway, but I followed the herd and found my way. It was so weird but kind of exciting to be back in the office. Couldn't remember the passcode for the photocopier or how to use it, but I doubt I'll need it anyway, after two and a half years of being paperless. My office still had my name on it. Found my spare reading glasses in the desk. That's where they went!

I wore my mask and washed my hands a lot, and I hope it was enough. I haven't been around so many people in a very long time. But it was fun to see familiar faces, especially those coworkers with whom I haven't had videoconferences. Hey, it's you! Good to see you're still alive! I am too.

Sad news

The baby bunny seemed to do all right for about four days, perky and alert and interested in grass and lettuce more than the milk replacer I offered him. He would let me handle him softly, and he recovered enough to start grooming himself. But yesterday he turned lethargic again, spending most of the day facing into a corner of his box. This morning he ate a little and then lay down on his side, which wasn't a good sign. He spent the day quietly lying there, breathing gently, not in any apparent distress but obviously not doing well. I don't know, maybe the shock of his injury was wearing off and he was beginning to feel the effects. At any rate, I could see he wasn't going to survive, so I carried him out to his old birth nest and laid him beside it, near his mother's fur, and tonight he died. I've buried him in my garden.

The woman I spoke to at the wildlife rehab centre said in their 30 years of experience they've never had a wild rabbit thrive in captivity. They are prey animals and are in a constant state of freeze-or-flight around people, which just isn't sustainable. As they get older, their instincts just get stronger, and it isn't any quality of life for them to be caged. With Harvey's injuries, I knew there was a strong chance he wouldn't make it, and he'd never be able to return to the wild, but I had to do what I could. I gave him four or five days of peace and safety and the chance to enjoy lettuce, which he really seemed to love. Ultimately, whether he lived or died wasn't my call.

I have a strong belief that animals have souls and a place in God's heart. I am comforted by the thought that he has two siblings with him on the other side, and that he can hop now. Even knowing that, it's still going to hurt for a while.

Stressful Times in the Garden

Well, the rabbit saga continues. Two nights ago, something clawed apart the rabbit nest. One baby was killed outright, one was wounded, and the other three are okay and running around the garden with Mama. The injured baby has lost the use of his hind legs (looks like something bit him -- he has a puncture wound on his back). He obviously can't survive in the wild without his legs, so I brought him into the house and made up a bed of straw taken from the nest, with a "burrow" made of a flowerpot, in a plastic tote. Okay, it's a blue recycling bin, and it has an unfortunate sticker on the side that says "Time is running out," but we're thinking positively here. 

My farm girl side has been warring with my Buddhist animal-lover side, and I decided I had to at least try to save him. Even if it doesn't work, I can try to make his last moments more comfortable than leaving him for the neighbour's cat to finish the job. My husband got some kitten milk replacer from the pet store, but he hasn't been too enthusiastic about it. He licked a drop from his lips, and he licked one drop off my finger, but he won't open his mouth to let me feed him with the eyedropper. He doesn't seem to be in pain or shock or anything, and he lets me hold him for a while before he protests and wants to be released. He perked up in spirits a bit when I took him out onto the lawn, and he even nibbled one blade of grass before hiding again in his flowerpot. He looks quite wilted and lethargic but becomes more animated when I take him outside. But there's just no way to keep him safe outside without a solid hutch to keep predators out.

I have to admit, watching Mama Bunny hopping around with his rough-and-tumble siblings broke my heart. I so want to be able to give him back to his mother, but it just isn't possible. I want him to be able to snuggle with his nestmates. I want him to be able to nurse. If he misses tonight's feeding, he may not make it to morning. Is it kind to try to save him? How can I not?

I went up to Mama, who was nonchalantly chewing on my spinach in the garden, and told her I was sorry about the one who died, and I promised her I'd do my best to help the little one I have.

Brio has been glaring at me all evening for fraternizing with the enemy, but he'll just have to be patient. This little being is going to take up a lot of time and focus and psychological energy for a while. 

Surprise!

I had some bare spots in the garden so thought I'd fill them in by planting some black beans. There was a layer of straw over the earth to keep the weeds down, so I moved handfuls aside as I worked my way down the raised bed, pushing beans into the soil.

And then I lifted a handful of straw and exposed about five little baby rabbits. They started to stir, probably expecting mummy. Oops! So sorry. Quickly covered them up again. Hoping mama rabbit won't be too upset by the disturbance when she comes back. Tiptoed away.

Not a smart move for a gardener, I suppose, to preserve a rabbit family. But there's something lovely about wildlife finding your yard a safe and peaceful place. There's room to share.

Writing Crossroads

So...A while ago, my publisher rejected my latest manuscript. It seems they've decided to publish only romance, historical fiction, and suspense now, and my manuscript doesn't fit those genres. My husband has always counselled me not to be so quick to get from point A to point B, and it seems I took his advice too much to heart, because they also said my story was "meandering." I think, when you peel back the layers to the core of it, what they're saying is "not enough suspense." There is no mechanism for rewriting and resubmitting it.

I sulked for a day---it's hard not to, when you've spent a year on a manuscript only to learn the carpet has been yanked out from under you---and then I decided to fall back on my other publisher, who put out my last book. But...drum roll...it seems they no longer want to do fiction. They're accepting non-fiction only.

I have two choices: I can either give it a quiet burial in the filing cabinet, or I can try to get a literary agent. Most publishers won't accept manuscripts "cold"; they want you to have an agent. But I'm not sure what I write is really substantial enough to warrant an agent. I don't write Great Literature, and it's probably too vanilla for a broader audience. It may be that my writing days are over.

I think I'm okay with that, except that this particular manuscript had something to say about cooperating and working with people who think differently from you. It's a timely topic, with nations being torn apart over divisive political viewpoints. We may not agree, but we can still tackle a problem together. It also featured an 87-year-old protagonist, because I feel older people are not well represented in books. And it would have brought my publishing credits to a nice round 12, which had a final sort of ring to it.

I suppose I could go with the self-publishing route, but I've never had much respect for it, to be frank, and I don't relish the idea of having to do all my own marketing. Life is exhausting enough without that. So...

I'll let you know what I decide.

Meanwhile, the world is on fire and famine is staring us bleakly in the face and refugees are standing at the airport hoping to be let into a new life, and I can't get too worked up over a rejection letter. Actually, not even anything so substantial as that -- a rejection email. It's hard to take it seriously. Life is changing in every aspect, and I guess my writing is going to change along with it. It may be the end of an era, or it may be high time for a revamp. I've been feeling the tug to focus more on non-fiction, on vital topics, on things that will build resilience and not just entertain. It may be that this is the start of something new.