At the start of December 2022, our rabbit died. I have to be honest here and say she hated us. We’d heard what lovely pets bunnies can be, but not ours. From the first time I picked her up in the pet shop, it was obvious she hated being held. She scratched me right across my chest instead of snuggling in and nuzzling. Right, I thought, she’ll get used to us.
But she didn’t. She would wriggle furiously, trying to get away from us. The only way to pick her up safely was to drop a light cloth over her and swaddle her, much like one does a new baby. Then you could put the bundle of fabric and bunny on your lap, or against your chest, and pat whatever part of her poked out.
She was no better when we got her a little pen mate. Our second rabbit had been handled since shortly after birth, and she accepted her fate. She would stop and let us pick her up. We could pat her to our hearts content. Unfortunately, she died first. It was one of Perth’s February hot spells, where it is still in the 30’s at midnight, and over 40 during the day. She survived two of those days before passing away late in the afternoon of the third. We had done all we could to keep our pets cool – their pen was open so they could roam the backyard, they had shade, we gave them bottles of frozen water to lie against. They had both survived many hots days, but I think it was the excessively hot night that did her in because she didn’t have that chance to cool down.
We were sad when she died, our snuggly bun, because we had liked her, and she left us with the one who still glared at us resentfully each time we approached. We gave up on trying to pick her up, and settled for at least not having her thump her back foot at us and bolt away. If we were permitted to be somewhere near her vicinity, we accepted that.
Last year sometime, on a trip to get some rabbit food and hay, my husband discovered a little box of carrot-shaped treats. He bought them home and held one out to her. He made the kissy kissy noise he always made when luring her back into her cage at night with the tasty tiny carrots she liked. She approached, and he dropped the treat at his feet. She ate it and then ran away. Okay, this was different – she had stayed put while nibbling the treat.
Over time she stayed longer while nibbling the treat, and we discovered we could touch her once on the head before she fled. Still, that was progress. By the end of November, she had us perfectly trained. She would sit on the mat outside of the laundry door, because she had realised that my husband would see her, say, “Oh, you want a treat”, then step inside the door, returning quickly with a small, delicious, carrot-shaped biscuit in his hand. She got stepped on more than once because we weren’t used to having a rabbit sitting on the mat, but she put up with that too, because we would say, “Oh, sorry!” and instantly give her a treat in apology. She would even come up to us while we were hanging out the washing and start nudging our feet. Of course it had the desired effect – we would say, “Aren’t you cute” and give her a treat. I’m not sure how many treats a day she got, because all four of us had the same reaction. One day I even noticed her sitting at the side door mat and wondered if she was trying the same trick everything. It turned out to be that she’d suddenly decided, in that scatty way of rabbitkind, that the side door mat was now where she would poop. Great – thanks, rabbit.
The Sunday before she died, I gave her a treat. Then I had an inspiration. If she was sitting quietly waiting to be treated and would stay put while eating, maybe I could pick her up while she was distracted. I patted her head, and she stayed. I put my hands on her body, and she didn’t move. So, I picked her up, held her against my chest… and she scratched my skin deeply, then leapt off over my shoulder onto the grass behind me. Right, message received – still no cuddles.
I bore that mark of shame for the rest of the week. A red curve, about 15 cm long, right in the middle of my chest where most of my clothes didn’t hide it. I went to three big events that week and had to put up with having her mark on me for all of it. On the Thursday night, I went to my yearly singing recital. I had covered the less red but still obvious scratch with face powder, attempting to tone it down a little. When it was my turn to present, I stood up on the stage and sang my heart out, the whole while hoping that the bright stage lights were blurring out my injury.
My family had not been able to attend the recital, as December is busy, and we all had something else on. I got home about 10 o’clock that night, relieved and excited that the night had gone well. I’d made less mistakes than the year before, and hid my stage fright a little better, so I counted that as a successful presentation. I was looking forward to telling everyone about the evening as soon as I’d changed my clothes. I had been home no longer than 15 minutes when my youngest son came up and said, “Mum, I think the rabbit has gone to the carrot patch in the sky”. I looked at him and said, “Seriously? Now?”. He invited me to come out and have a look. Our rabbit had a habit of lying flat out while sleeping, and we had often gone closer to see if she was actually dead, only to notice her nose was still twitching.
This time though, there was no twitching nose. She had quite obviously passed away, lying in her favourite spot in the corner of her open-air pen, underneath the water bottle that always dripped. It hadn’t been a hot day, so we knew she hadn’t died from overheating. There was no evidence of illness or accident either, so we believe that having reached the good age for an outdoor rabbit of 5 and half years, she simply died of natural causes.
I think, though, it was intentional. That pet hated us. She tolerated us only if we were feeding her. She made her dislike of our presence clear. And so she did the one thing she could do to upset us, and died on the one night of the year I had worked towards for so long! I didn’t get to tell anyone about my evening or get them to share in my delight at not bombing too badly, because the rest of the night was taken up with gathering her body, finding a suitable box and preparing her, and ourselves, for her body to be delivered to the Small Pet Disposal Service the next day. Neither of my sons liked the idea of her being buried in the no longer used sand pit, so a centre that would handle her cremation was the next best option.
It is strange, then, that even though she hated us, and we couldn’t get close to her, I still feel her presence. All I could think the first week after her passing, until my chest healed, was that the scratch she had given me lasted longer than she did. Now, I hang out the washing and wait for her nudge on my foot. I water the back lawn and look to where her hutch and pen were, out of habit of checking that she had enough shade, food and water. It still seems strange that there is nothing there, other than a bare patch where the grass is slowly growing back now that the pressure of her hutch is gone. I go to step out of the side door, and I check the mat for poop, in case she’s decided to leave her droppings there. She’s been gone for six weeks, but the memory of her lurking around the back lawn and courtyard remains. I guess she grew on us after all, even with her snooty attitude and ‘get away, human’ response to us. It’s like she has gone, but her shadow remains, in the corner of our eyes, and in our heart of hearts, in the place that loved her and only wanted her to love us back.
A Glorious Mess 