A Rabbit for All Seasons

Lisa Ivers

Dedicated to Sylvia Vaughn, a devoted “Rabbit Whisperer.”


Thirty years ago, in the ‘70’s, my first experience with domestic rabbits was fairly typical of any suburban kid at that time. A makeshift wooden hutch in the backyard, empty days broken up by periodic petting sessions, and occasional romps on the lawn made up the sum total of Thumper’s existence. Having a pet rabbit spayed or neutered was unheard of, and bringing a healthy rabbit to the vet for regular check-ups would have raised more than a few eyebrows. It follows that having a free-ranging “House Rabbit” then was almost as inconceivable as keeping a goat in the kitchen, a python in the basement, or a lynx in the bedroom. Not that it wasn’t done (I believe that walking a lynx on a leash enjoyed a brief amount of popularity with the disco crowd. Then again, so did disco…).

Rabbits were indisputably the third-class citizens of the pet world, enjoying few of the privileges of pet dogs and cats beyond the essentials of food, water, and the most elementary shelter. And as with any perpetually-caged, domestic animal deprived of regular attention and mental exercise, the innate playfulness and individual personalities of rabbits had to have been terribly compromised. Perhaps for that reason we’re all too familiar with “dumb bunny” clichés.

It’s encouraging to see how far humans have evolved in recognizing the rabbit’s endearing (and sometimes, not-so-endearing) qualities and intelligence, but I still meet with awe and disbelief when I mention that rabbits do such simple things as use litter boxes and answer to their own names. Rabbit owners and breeders, and the veterinarians and biologists who work with them have access to more information about the emotional, social, and physical makeup of rabbits than ever before, but popular sentiment still seems to have a foot rooted firmly back in the nether days.

It was once widely accepted that rabbits were timid, submissive, frenzied breeders, better suited to the dinner table, key-chain charm, or clothing rack rather than napping peacefully on the sofa. I confess that I myself didn’t realize the charm and resilience of a truly cherished rabbit back in those days myself. Jasper changed all of that.

Jasper came into our lives as an unwanted Easter bunny in 1999. A barely-weaned Silver Fox doe, she was the last of a mixed litter of “culls” (rabbits bred for show, but with physical characteristics that made them unlikely contenders for a trophy). While her white-furred, pink-eyed and pastel sisters and brothers were taken to their new homes, she, the lone black bunny, evidently didn’t qualify as holiday material. How lucky for all of us.

She was the size of a small tennis ball when we brought her home, and could fit snugly in the palm of your hand. We outfitted her with a soft, cushioned bed, a zoo of stuffed toys and a warm water bottle in the kitchen, but she had other priorities. She wanted to be with us. To this day I don’t know how she squeezed under the bedroom door to curl up with us in the bed… nothing like opening your eyes at 5 a.m. to find a rabbit sleeping peacefully in your pajama pocket. Granted, the doors of the rental house weren’t hung all that well, but it was still impressive.

Within a year she was unrecognizable as her former self. Jasper blossomed to a healthy 10 pounds, and was sporting twelve pounds six months later. At the same time she developed a very strong opinion of who she liked and disliked. When my husband went away on business, I decided to order a pizza for dinner. Imagine the delivery man’s surprise (and mine, for that matter) when a black blur of a rabbit bolted for the door, lunged at his feet and chased him to the driveway. The poor guy jumped through the open window of his car, begging me to call off my “dog.” “What kind of dog is that?! I’ve never seen ears like that on a dog!” I think I heard his testosterone levels crashing to the asphalt when I told him she was a rabbit. Granted, he didn’t get a very good look at her while he was running away…but he got a hefty tip that night.

I was astounded, but a similar situation played itself out soon after. A couple of very nice, polite, well-intentioned and well-dressed ladies of a certain religious order came knocking on my door. Relieved that I just scrubbed the house from top to bottom and not wanting to unceremoniously brush them off, I invited them in for coffee. At first Jasper regarded them sullenly from across the room, one ear straight up, the other cocked peevishly to the side. Then suddenly she decided to take action upon the interlopers.

She bolted to the couch we were sitting on with grim purpose, and propelled herself onto the backrest behind one of my new, and now suddenly uneasy, acquaintances. I have seen cats stare disapprovingly at people, but I never imagined that a rabbit could maintain such an unblinking glare aimed at the back of someone’s head. I was growing uneasy myself. Gently lowering her to the floor, tittering like a nervous chipmunk in apology, I patted Jasper on the head and silently implored the powers that be for her to behave herself. No such luck.

In an instant she was rifling through the open purse of our guest, tossing keys, Kleenex, and unmentionable feminine hygiene products to the wind. It’s a real dilemma when you don’t know if you’re trying to stifle hysterical laughter or crushing embarrassment. When my guest tried to recover her purse, she got a sound slap on the hand by a rogue rabbit paw, followed by an angry stamp and disgusted sniff. Jasper then retreated with a look that can only be translated as “my work here is done.”