In the eighties, when my husband and I lived in southern Alberta, we raised rabbits. Actually, we began the project to raise them for meat, selling some, and keeping some for our own use, to help with the ever-short cash flow at the time. But as with everything else on our mini-farm, the rabbits soon became pets. I ended up naming them. Well, now let me ask you, “Can you kill Clara or Susie or Daisy or Betsy, or Peter, and turn them into food?” Of course not! So my husband made a rule. I could name only the rabbits that we would be using as breeders. All the others had to remain nameless.

But the problem was, our nieces and nephews would come to visit us. The first thing they wanted to do was go see the rabbits. We must have had about fifty at the time, all in cages, according to what we were planning to do with them. And usually Alice, Betsy, Clara and Daisy, as well as Edna would have babies in different stages of growth. There was never any shortage of bunnies to pass around to the little ones. But it made us uncomfortable to know that those rabbits being cuddled by the children would someday be dinner on the table. My explanation to the children, whenever they asked was, “Well, you don’t eat bunnies. Bunnies are pets. Rabbits are to eat.” Of course, the next question they would ask, holding the bunny of their choice closer, would be, “Is this one a bunny or a rabbit?” So it wasn’t too long before we phased out the “meat”-raising end of it. And because not too many people wanted a pet bunny, we soon dropped the rabbit raising all together.

But we do have some special memories of some of our rabbits––or bunnies.

We had a Netherland Dwarf who ran around the house with the cats and dog. Her name was Dora. She and Mocha and Simba, our Persian and a Siamese cats, would play tag for hours. Then, exhausted, she would curl up beside them and sleep. Training Dora to the litter box was no harder than it was to train the cats. She never ever urinated anywhere but in the box. Very occasionally, when she got carried away playing tag, she would drop a few pellets, but they were easily swept up. We had many enjoyable months with Dora. She would sit curled up in our laps, just as would the cats. But one day we came home from town and could find Dora nowhere. After searching the house for an hour or so, and asking the cats in a scolding manner what they had done with Dora. You can just imagine the disdainful look we got from the two of them. “Why ask us? Can’t you see we are innocent?”

We discovered poor Dora under the bed. She was stone cold. We examined her carefully to see if the cats had really done her in, and were not telling us the truth. But there was not a mark on her. We surmised that she had run so hard, playing tag with the kitties that she had died of a heart attack. We missed Dora for a long time, and so did Mocha and Simba. The dogs had never paid much attention to her, so they just carried on their lives as always.

On several other occasions we had rabbits as pets, too. I had another Dwarf rabbit that spent her life housed with the guinea pigs. We had made a long table-height pen for the guinea pigs, with no top, just sides about eight inches high all around for their own protection, so they wouldn't tumble out. The bunny and the guinea pigs resided compatibly with each other, and were never bothered by the cats or the dog.

One other special memory of my rabbit raising days was that one doe had a litter of nineteen. This was a new experience for me. But the problem was, the mother was bleeding profusely, and died. What was I to do with nineteen squirming, bunnies, and no other nursing mother? I scouted the neighborhood for a nursing cat (as cats will adopt bunnies), but as it so happened, I could not find one. I tried to save the babies, but not being experienced, I lost them all, and unfortunately, I lost the mother rabbit, too.

That brings me to one other sad-happy memory of trying to raise a baby bunny from birth to independence. One of the mothers of the full-sized rabbits had a litter of babies during the night. She was in the process of eating them when we discovered that she had given birth. We were able to rescue four of the babies, giving them to another mother who had had a litter of only three, a week previous. It was successful for three of the babies, but one was too small and weak to survive with the others. I took the baby into the house, fixing up a little bed for her. I had a woolen toque, which I lined with flannel and cotton batten. In this, I carried this little bunny everywhere I went. I remember even taking her into the chiropractor’s office with me. This attracted a lot of attention. Everyone wanted to know why I was cuddling a toque. Was I just a little “touched in the head” or something? When I showed them the tiny bunny, there was a lot of “ooing and awing!”

I had been feeding the bunny with an eyedropper. Later I purchased a doll’s bottle. But not being very knowledgeable when it came to formula, the little thing was not progressing very well. I do remember that she survived long enough for her eyes to open, and for her to become fully furred. I must have had her for about ten days. I was sad when she died. It was an experience I will never forget.

Now back to my original pitch of whether or not you should have a bunny as a pet. My opinion is this: a bunny would make an ideal pet for anyone living in an apartment. They are clean, make no noise, are not demanding, are easy to feed, and need no special equipment. And they don't bite--unless they mistake a finger for a carrot! As to whether you choose to have a full-sized bunny or a dwarf if up to you.

Just remember, though, if you are keeping a bunny as a pet, it is my advice that you keep it indoors. There are many reasons for this: it would be safe from danger of cats, raccoons or dogs; it would not pick up fleas in the summer; and in our cold Canadian winters, housing a pet out of doors could be a problem, especially for the smaller breeds.

Of course, my further advice would be to have your bunny spayed or neutered. This goes for any type of pet you wish to own.

© Helen Dowd