So I walk. Walking lets my mind wander as well as my feet. I think about all sorts of things when I go out for walks. It clears my head; it is diverting, yet tranquil. It's a recently developed habit; when I think about it, I guess I started in college. I walked infrequently but when I did I always enjoyed myself, and the meditative state I cultivated. In Wyoming I started doing it more frequently, at Lions Park a few blocks from my folks' house. I walked around Sloans Lake at sunset, watched the trees, the other pedestrians, the planes landing at Cheyenne Regional, the cars going by on Yellowstone Road and 8th Avenue, the immaculate golden sunlight filtering through the leaves...and just thought and moseyed, thought and moseyed.
Here in K-Land my favorite place to walk is down by Gohyeoncheon, the Gohyeon River. It's really little more than a stream, hardly deep enough to drown in. Close to the harbor it's downright ugly, sunk into a wide trench with city buildings on either side, nothing but slimy rocks poking up out of the dirty brown water, with the more-than-occasional piece of trash or abandoned bicycle. Level with my apartment building, though, the river is much nicer: more vegetation, less trash, more wildlife, and a pleasant path leading along the bank. Good place for contemplation, the Gohyeon River is. You have to watch out for that one stretch just after the outhouse, around the bridge they're constructing; it's so rocky that a meditative wanderer can easily stumble. The rest of it's fine, though: you can drag your feet while your mind is busy soaring with relatively little danger of bodily injury.
So, I was on my way down to the river for a contemplative stroll one Saturday back in late February. It was an enviable day: the sun was warm but the breeze was still cold. I was approaching the construction site, which I habitually cut through to reach the river walk, when I saw something odd. Or rather, two somethings odd. There was a ball of fur being chased by another ball of fur. As I got closer, the two indistinct fur-blobs resolved themselves into a scrawny cat pursuing a small white rabbit. I could immediately see the rabbit was in severe difficulties; the cat was close on his tail, and worrying him. As the two shapes closed, the rabbit set up a piteous wail. I increased my pace instinctively. I could hear the Superman theme playing in the background as I bounded over the pavement in slow motion. I pounded up just as the poor bunny was about to give up the ghost. He collapsed in a patch of mud. The cat closed in. I hollered at it and waved my arms. It backed off. I slung a few well-judged rocks in its direction. The cat decided that just as discretion was the better part of valor, not getting creamed by a jagged rock was the better part of discretion, and fled. The rabbit lay panting heavily in its chosen patch of mud.
I didn't know what to do. The animal was quite clearly a pet. It had snow-white fur, marred in a few places by brown spots (it had brown ears, and brown patches around its eyeballs that somehow only accentuated its already considerable cuteness). It was slightly muddy; it looked as if it had been living rough for a while. In my innocence, I assumed that it had escaped from a private house, rather than been dumped by unwilling owners, as Charles later surmised. I decided I'd let the poor animal rest up a bit before attempting to move it to a drier location. After that...I figured I'd let it fend for itself. My mind had callously set itself against the idea of adopting it, despite its cuteness. Little did I realize the complete and utter sentimental turnaround I would make later that day.
...in about five minutes, in fact, after the rabbit's breathing had slowed. I cautiously approached it, stroked it, talked softly to it, reassured it. Then I put my hands gently under it (fortunately it was tiny, and easy to hold) and lifted. That's when I noticed that one of its back legs was swinging loose like a wind chime. I stared for a moment. It didn't take a genius to figure out that its left hind leg was broken, and badly. It was hanging by the tendons. All thought of abandoning the rabbit to its fate left my mind in that instant. I dithered some more, gave a few more plaintive looks to the pedestrians and bicyclists riding by (who took absolutely no notice of either myself or the rabbit), then made up my mind. I took off my undershirt, bundled the rabbit up in it (he relieved himself in it almost immediately), then took him to a nearby animal hospital I knew. By now his eyes were dimmed and his breathing shallow; he was going into shock. In a near-panic I hurried as best I know how while carrying the awkward bundle.
The rabbit survived the jolting trip, and the vet received me with broken English. After an examination he managed to communicate that the rabbit's femur was broken. He said an operation was necessary and that metal pins would have to be placed in the leg. The bill would be 300,000 won (about $270). The vet doubtfully asked me if I wanted to proceed. I thought for about five minutes, then said yes. The bunny looked so helpless laying there; I felt I didn't have any other choice. It was either that or euthanasia. Besides, I'd gone to all the trouble of bundling him up in my shirt and bringing him here; why stop now just when things were looking hopeful?
The vet tranquilized the rabbit and strapped his abused little body down onto a frame, spread-eagling him on his back. He looked like a heretic in the clutches of the Inquisitors, but the vet was gentle as could be as he went to work. He opened up the leg and had a look. The rabbit twitched occasionally; the anesthetic must have been shallow, for the vet injected another dose. Then he looked grave. He dialed up his sister on his cell phone and handed it to me; she spoke better English, he said. So we began a strange conversation that involved speaking with the sister in Korean (the vet), then English (me), and handing the phone back and forth in between. Through her, the vet told me that the damage was worse than he'd suspected; the bones were splintered beyond repair. The leg would have to be amputated, and the rabbit would likely be euthanized. His sister assured me that was best. With seemingly no other option, I reluctantly agreed.
For the next hour the vet sawed, hacked, and cut at the leg, with the poor bunny twitching madly even through a double dose of tranquilizers. At one point its struggles became so pathetic I held onto its little paw. The operation concluded, the last bit of iodine-stained skin sewed together over the bone stump, and the mangled leg laying on the table, bloodied and bent, I paid the readjusted fee of 150,000 won and the vet bowed me out of the clinic. I walked home, dejected. All that agony the rabbit had to endure and he was going to wind up euthanized. It seemed rather hard. My mother suggested I follow up, and tactfully and gently suggested I adopt it, or arrange for someone else to. I hadn't considered that latter suggestion, but now it seemed better and better all the time. I was getting kind of fond of that little white rabbit; the thought that it had just three legs only intensified its charm. I owed it to that rabbit to save its life, anyway; I had to finish what I started.
The vet had said he would keep the rabbit until Monday and then take it to be euthanized in person at City Hall. I had Charles, the wonderful and obliging head teacher of my hagwon, make a phone call to the vet's on Monday morning. Luck was with the little lagomorph. The vet, impressed by my kindness (as Charles said), had decided not to euthanize the rabbit and was holding onto it in the hope that someone would adopt it. I was over the moon. I immediately set about petitioning. I asked Adam and Elaine over cards that weekend and they agreed to take it. We stopped by the vet's a few days later to assure him that we would take it off his hands in a few weeks (after payday, so Adam and Elaine could buy the necessary equipment).
When payday came, we waltzed down to Homeplus, purchased shavings, pellets, a bottle, a feed dish, and a cage, then returned to the vet's and secured the rabbit. He is now installed in the living room of Adam and Elaine's apartment, getting big on plentiful pellets and alfalfa. He's a little leery of the slippery linoleum floor, but he doesn't mind it if you put a towel down for him. None of us could agree on a name. I was all for Hopper, or better yet Stumpy (in honor of a tabby cat once owned by my grandparents who had a similar number of limbs); Adam was leaning toward Long John, in honor of the Stevenson tale; Elaine, however, insisted on Bo Jenkins. That name has stuck. Bo Jenkins he is and shall likely remain.
Adam and I attempted to trim his nails today (the twelfth, Easter Sunday); we managed to get one of his forepaws done but he got skittish about the others. His claws were monstrously, hideously long; he'd been abandoned some time before I found him, I reckoned. The past is past. Bo is getting better by the week at moving around on three legs, and is braver, friendlier and bigger every time I see him. It does my heart good to know that there are kind people like Adam and Elaine who will give their hearts and homes to a furry little animal; and also to know that there's one less abandoned, lonely, cold, preyed-upon bunny in this world.
I think Bo Jenkins might feel the same way.
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