The Three Ages of Man

Mid-morning at the Phillpott town residence of Dun Subbin, and the emergency services now sprung into action like a well-oiled machine.

There was no time to be lost. She-who-must-be-obeyed knew exactly what to do.

Moments later, the phone on the Evening News conning tower spluttered into life, urgent ringing tones cutting through the fug of Editorial.

"It's Lewis," she sobbed. "I think he's had a stroke".

Within minutes, I was astride Trigger, my trusty Raleigh Traveller three-speed tourer, and bicycling like a bat out of hell along the riverbank, crashing through the gears with a deftness that would have caused the late Barrie Sheene to utter a low whistle in awe.

Grinding to a halt by the garages in daring pit-stop fashion, I reached the rabbit run in what must have been a single bound, hitting the ground running.

I found the two girls crouched on the ground near Lewis's hutch, weeping uncontrollably, their tearstains dotting the crazy paving like miniature bomb blasts.

I looked at the patient and made a quick assessment. There was no time to waste. Lewis needed professional help. And fast.

The poor old hare was rushed to the vets' and his condition assessed. It transpired that he hadn't suffered a stroke - the paralysis that was affecting his limbs had either been caused by vitamin deficiency, a sudden shock, or by an accident to a paw.

He would need treatment and hospitalisation. The outlook was grim.

Lewis stayed for several days and I collected him on the Sunday. There had been little improvement and one of the vets at the practice said his chances were 50-50.

The entire house was plunged into gloom. Dun Subbin became a veritable slough of despond as all its inhabitants prepared to provide respite care for the best-loved bucktooth this side of Watership Down.

The position looked hopeless. We took turns to feed and wash our little pal, helping him to hobble around the lawn in the recent unseasonably sunny weather.

There was no improvement, but we didn't give up hope. Surrender was not a word to be found in our dictionary.

On the Thursday, Lewis had another appointment at the surgery. I had resolved not to have him put down. That morning he ate a hearty meal sitting in the sunshine - how could I possibly take him to his place of execution on such a beautiful day?

Later, we learnt that he was not in pain, and the vet said that we could persevere with him if we wished. However, his chances of recovery were now only 20 to 30 per cent. We carried him along Bath Road in his basket, each of us with a heavy heart...

It seems to me that there are Three Ages of Man. Before children arrive on the scene, couples channel all their love and attention on a surrogate child - a cat, dog or rabbit. Such substitutes are lavished with the finest food that money can buy.

They are endlessly cuddled, these furry pretend-babies. On Sunday mornings, they join the humans in bed along with the spilled tea and those razor-sharp toast crumbs that get everywhere.

Pampered pooches and mollycoddled cats are showered with gifts for birthdays and at Christmas. Whether it is the hamster in his wheel or golden labrador sat regally in the finest wicker basket, nothing is too good for them.

And rabbits are no exception.

Up and down the land, these creatures are spoiled to bits. Anybody who disputes this is either a liar or in chronic denial mode.

When the small humans arrive, the status of the surrogate is immediately reduced. After a few months of the four Ps - piddle, puke, poo and projectile vomiting - there remains little enthusiasm for clearing up the whoopsie that Khan the alsatian has left on the kitchen floor.

Khan is still loved, but it's not the same. He has been usurped by another life-form that demands attention 24 hours a day. Khan's relatively modest needs of two square meals and a daily run around Diglis playing fields become an imposition rather than a pleasure.

The years pass. The children grow up and leave home. You are left with your partner and an otherwise empty house. But no, not quite... for the pet or pets that had joined the family not so long ago are still with you.

And that means it's time to start the Third Age. It's a case of surrogate kids to the real thing... and now back. That old biological alarm clock goes off yet again - but instead of spooning jars of miniature meals down letter-box mouths set in faces plastered with impetigo, it's shopping trolleys creaking with cat, dog and rabbit food.

But it's all so liberating. Life becomes carefree once again. You start to worry less about what other people think as the neighbours rapidly come to the conclusion that you're completely off your rocker.

So what if they overhear the daily conversations between pet and owner?

"Now I won't tell you again, Edward. Look at the state of your bedroom. What would Dorothy think if she called round unexpectedly? Now - tidy up that hay. Don't make me have to tell you again..."

Two weeks to the day that he had first collapsed, Lewis started to show some ability to move his limbs. It began in his back legs - and he also gained some movement in his left front paw.

Sitting in the sunshine on the lawn, being fed on demand and generally being pampered seemed to be having an effect. That night, he made himself comfortable on the rug in front of the fire, and joined us to watch Coronation Street.

Luckily, that particular episode just featured Peter Barlow acting like a complete bounder. I breathed a sigh of relief. A week or two earlier it would have been more frightening, with Richard Hillman going on a murderous rampage or something worse, like Vera losing her false teeth.

At this stage of Lewis' recuperation, anything that might have set him back had to be avoided at all costs. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with the healing process.

However, I must face the stark reality that his recovery will probably be limited. At the age of six - that's 60 years in human terms - he has had the majority of his allocation of time on Earth.

But the thing is that I can't bear to be parted from the old chap. I would rather look after him in his declining years, time-consuming though this might be. In any event, he no longer lives in his hutch next to his brother and sister by the side of the house.

His permanent home is now in a cat basket in the kitchen. He reclines in the garden on sunny days and in the evening watches TV.

Life may not be what it once was, but it's bearable. Days of burrowing, sniffing and scratching - the favourite pastimes of rabbits - may just be the stuff of reminiscence, but what the heck? He still has his memories.

I'm glad I never gave up on him. In fact, I'm looking at him right now. He's sitting by the fire in his favourite place, chewing on a carrot. That's the spirit, old hare.

It's not time for the great warren in the sky. Heaven can wait.