Bunny Mania

We had a bunny problem. I saw an advertisement with bunnies reproducing like crazy. It does happen. Honest. I went to another local farm to get the bunnies. This farm was unique. The animals’ quarters were an abandoned house, complete with ripped flowered wallpaper, winding staircase, cupboards, fireplace and a kitchen sink. It was a bit awkward to be standing in a hallway while chickens and goats amble through. Business as usual.

We came across the bunnies. The farmer, Mona, assured me that all three of the bunnies were female. That was the deal. I was hesitant from the start with the whole bunny thing, but I remembered my grandparents’ quintessential New England farm with the bunny hutch at the corner of the vegetable garden near the lush green pasture.

Wondering how she could be so certain of the bunnies’ miniscule anatomy, I asked Mona one last time, “These are all female, right?”

“Absolutely.” She placed her hands on her hips with the utmost confidence.

My gut told me to run, but each one of my kids had fallen in love with an irresistibly cute velvety creature, ready to bring them home to the bunny bitches that we worked so hard to craft. One bunny bitch was made of a nice old bureau that we took the drawers from and you guessed it, covered the front with chicken wire with the staple gun. We made a cover out of a wooden frame with chicken wire and the staple gun. (During this time, buying stock in chicken wire and staples would probably have been a great investment).

The first three bunnies were Miniature Rexes. Other than their cuteness, they were basically useless, only eating, wiggling their noses and leaving little pellets everywhere. Anna took responsibility for the rabbits.

Everything seemed to be going rather smoothly, which I have learned is when it is vital to be suspicious. Ignoring that twinge of suspicion, I accepted more bunnies into the mix. My girlfriend gave us a huge black Mini Lop; we named it Boodles. (That is where the cliché, with friends like that, who needs enemies, came from.) We thought that if Boodles was male…no problem…we would put him in his own hutch (bitch). He was just too adorable to resist. (I broke into a sweat when I typed this).

I then went a little bit more insane when my other girlfriend – a spinner and knitter – gave us a gorgeous gray Angora rabbit that we named Sasha. I don’t do anything with needles, but I would save the hair for her use.

At this point, I caved in and bought a beautiful hutch from a woodcrafter near our farm. The only bunnies cohabitating were the original three ‘girls’.

Then the day came that changed our little farm forever. Anna hurried down the hill, radiant, braids flying everywhere. “Mopsy has babies!”

News flash. Mona was wrong. Sadie turned out to be Stanley. We were back to building bunny bitches, which were now starting to resemble condos. I separated the bunnies according to what I thought was their sex. Anna was over the moon having tea parties with bunnies and our one cat, Chloe, who would tolerate anything that Anna requested. She carried miniscule babies around in a basket, placed them on her math book, her music stand. Anna was the bunny girl.

After a few more litters of bunnies, things just got way out of control. The bunny condos were spreading like South Beach and no matter how skillful I had become with chicken wire, some of them were master escape artists.

Each morning I sat on the deck trembling and sipping my coffee awaiting the news from Anna after her morning visit to South Beach. “Mommy, so and so has babies.”

(to be continued)…