Once I had a rabbit in a cage. I still have the cage. The cage has been empty since the day the rabbit died. He twitched his nose and looked at me through the side of his face everyday for almost a year before he looked at me dead on, scree-ee-eeched, and had a seizure. His body stretched out to twice its normal length, his limbs extended. He danced and bwp bwp bwp'd around the cage for a few seconds before flopping over like a cartoon character - a dramatic, exaggerated gesture.
It was the most I ever saw him move. The most noise I ever heard him make. It was hard to be sad then, watching him unleash this new power. Today, I don't talk about the day the rabbit died or how it made me feel.
The rabbit was the first and last friend I spoke to every day. I used to jangle my keys and say "I love you, rabbit. Be back soon," every time I left the house. The rabbit would wiggle his nose and blink with a steady rhythm, interrupted by the occasional leap from one end of his cage to the other. On the good days, when no one else was around to terrorize him, I would let the rabbit down onto the carpeted floor of my crummy basement apartment, and he would bounce from wall to wall with great pleasure and run playful figure-8s around my feet. Sometimes I would lay on the floor, napping lazily while he climbed over my body, chewing small holes in all my good clothes.
A lot of famous people died recently too.