As Alexander Fury's rabbit destroys a much-loved Louis Vitton, deep thinking about the futile nature of fashion follows

I’ve suffered my first major loss of 2015 – a material possession, mind. But it’s a biggie. And I myself am partly responsible. The item in question is a Louis Vuitton coat a good 15 years old.

I won’t eulogise how pitch perfect it was, with intentionally short sleeves, upturned lapels, a low-slung belt. Nor how I’d searched for it for years, finally paying a small fortune via eBay to have it shipped across the world.

Let’s, rather, relay its destruction. It’ll take less time. My rabbit decided to climb on the sofa and “rework” it. The Vuitton coat now rather more resembles those Vuitton bags Rei Kawakubo created, pock-marked with Gruyere-cheesey holes.

I used to snort derisively at people who wrote about the destruction wrought by their pets. Now I am one of them, although it’s rare that my rabbit turns against my clothes. He’s chewed a doorframe that necessitated a weekend of wood-filling work, spread-eagled on the floor feeling like Michelangelo. As in, dead since 1564. There is also an omnipresent whitewash of rabbit fur across my carpets. I tried lint-rolling, but after clearing about an inch, the roller ended up looking like a prelicked Fab lolly dropped on the floor of the hairdresser’s. The whole futile exercise felt like a vengeful biblical task assigned to house proud sinners to make them repent their wicked vanity.

I do love the stupid rabbit. Owning a pet can ward off depression, lower blood pressure, and boost immunity, according to a lazy Google search I just did. I actually agree – and frequently wish I could take him with me when at the shows abroad, to de-stress. However, that strikes even me as slightly insane.

Maybe pets just don’t work when it comes to fashion? The lint roller I attempted to Swiffer my rugs with is just one of many generally used to remove rabbit fluff and give a semblance of neatness to my attire.

You never see Holly Golightly doing the same with her black dress in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, despite the cat. And of course, the stories of dogs massacring expensive shoes are legion (my rabbit has a penchant for that, too, but has never been left unsupervised when they were within eating distance).

The whole exercise got me to overly deep thinking about the futile nature of fashion. I tried reasoning with the rabbit: but how to explain the significance, the value, of fashion to an animal? One who also steadfastly refuses to wear clothes (I’ve obviously tried). It’s a distinctly odd human thing – relying on others to craft the plumage we want to wear on our backs. Most other species just want to eat the stuff.

How to explain the difference between Louis Vuitton and Chewy Vuitton? There’s a thought with which to begin the autumn/winter 2015 season.