Some Bunny to Love
Recently I’ve seen memes circulating from a haunting Euphoria scene: Cassie, dressed like an extra from Oklahoma, shrieking “I’m happier than ever” through tears. Without spoiling the show, I can assure you that she is not, in fact, happy at all. She’s miserable, lonely, and harbouring secrets that are eating her from the inside out.
Cassie’s blatant denial is oddly resonant. Everywhere I look someone is screaming to the rooftops about something. World War 3 is coming! Climate change will kill us! Freeze your eggs! Go on your mental health walk!
For the last week, my hometown has been besieged by honking truckers, Nazis, and anti-vaxxers (oh my). Now the convoy has sent reinforcements into Toronto, and my brunch plans have been ruined by the downtown bigot brigade.
My morning routine
My escape generally comes through books, though my taste isn’t much more inspiring. I tested my gore threshold while reading Tender is The Flesh, a translated novel about mass producing humans as meat to control over-population. I picked up the new Sally Rooney this week for an easy love story, and now I’m fully absorbed in other people’s depression.
I didn’t always find life scary. Going for mimosas never used to come with safety conversations - it used to be easy fun. Now I’m worried about my social skills, paranoid protesters, and the persisting pandemic. It’s a miracle I’d even consider leaving my house at all.
Going down the rabbit hole of all that’s wrong in the world makes me want to hide in my burrow indefinitely. When I need advice on how to cope, I turn to my in-house safety expert: our pet rabbit, Bruce.
Classic bunny behaviour
24 Carrot Magic
I adopted Bruce before I came to Toronto in 2017. While filling out applications for my postgraduate, it occurred to me that I might be lonely in a new city. I needed a companion to be brave.
Hilariously, I chose the physical embodiment of anxiety.
In storybooks, rabbits wear little suit jackets above their cottontails, nibble on carrots and guide curious women toward adventure. They’re quirky, precocious, and often getting into trouble. Watership Down paints rabbits as tricksters and warriors who fight for their values. Escape is always possible with a cunning plan.
In real life, rabbits are as skeptical as they are soft.
Like his namesake, Bruce was born to run. My tiny mop of brown fluff darts under the couch in panic at least twice a day. He’s lived a charmed, cage-free life for years, and still sometimes thinks we’re going to eat him.
Sudden movements, loud noises, and new smells send Bruce sprinting for safety. He has a longstanding feud with the printer at grandma’s house, stamping his back legs for hours to warn us about the evil device shooting paper onto the desk. He has no time for suit jackets or strategic schemes.
To Bruce, every day is about survival.
Mark and I are unbelievably attached to our rabbit. We sing bunny-themed songs and put boxes on the floor for him to chew. Bruce enabled my online shopping habit with his appreciation for new cardboard. While he recognizes that the three of us share this burrow, earning a rabbit’s trust is a process. Bunny-sitters will lament that Bruce lunged at their hands while offering a treat. Visitors rarely see him come out from under the furniture.
For us, the coaxing is constant. Bunnies don’t blanket anything as a certainty. What gave them affection yesterday could easily be dangerous tomorrow. A nice snuggle one day could be a trap to cut their nails the next. Rarely does Bruce abandon his alert stance to relax in the bliss of complete security. It took years for him to let his guard down enough to flash us glimpses of his belly. Every snuggle is earned, and a wrong move can take away that trust in an instant.
In the short term, Bruce holds grudges when he doesn’t get his way. For a creature afraid of everything, he’s become a real diva about his treats. This tiny storybook character huffs, puffs and turns his tail to me when he’s angry. If his bowl is empty he’ll start chewing furniture to get our attention. The wrong kibble brand will be launched onto the carpet with his nose. At times he’s tried to tug down plants with his teeth or drag pillows to his spot under the chair. In an odd moment of gusto, he tried to swipe a rice cake out of my hand.
I sometimes forget that rabbits are also vermin
Despite his finicky nature, our patience is well worth a graze of soft fur and velvet ears. On occasion, Bruce gives small licking kisses, a rare appreciation for supporting his cushy lifestyle. Sharing a banana will grant you a few minutes of cuddling. This earned affection feels more powerful than immediate obedience, and Mark and I squeal when we’re granted precious moments of snuggle-time. We’re honoured to be deemed unthreatening enough for his love.
Bruce’s jumpy demeanour is part of our adoration. On my most anxious days, he reminds me that there’s a lot I’m not afraid of. He forces me to verbally acknowledge that everything is, in fact, okay. Comforting one ball of stress helps me unwind the internal ones I carry around, and Bruce becomes both a distraction from the world and a reminder to relax.
Sometimes his panic is enough to make me laugh at my own distress - like I’m just another bunny darting from one side of the living room to the other. It’s impossible to see your situation from a higher vantage point, but watching Bruce deal with constant anxiety puts my own fear into perspective. Generally speaking, my life is pretty safe. Whatever has me nervous is likely the equivalent of a slammed door or demonic printer in my otherwise comfortable environment.
By far, the most important lesson he’s taught me is that anxiety, while horrifying, doesn’t detract from cuteness.
In Bruce’s case, it enhances it.
Day in the life of a groundhog
Of Mice and Men
Rabbits are anxious because they are prey animals. If you live your life waiting to be eaten alive, it follows that you may harbour some additional stress. Most rodents are equally skittish. Mice, squirrels, and chipmunks, for instance, aren’t known for their cuddly demeanours.
The Secret of NIMH, it appears, is caution.
This is perfectly demonstrated by the world’s cutest meteorologists. Groundhog Day is, at its core, a celebration of anxiety. Every February we look to our fearful leaders to tell us what comes next. Groundhogs around North America peer out of their burrows, assessing if it’s safe to come out.
We praise these groundhogs for being afraid of their own shadows and jumping to conclusions. So why isn’t it as cute when I do it? News about a migrating convoy is enough to keep me inside for days. A bit of rain immediately ruins my mental health walk. Unexpected plans send me spiraling about schedules.
In the pandemic, every day is Groundhog Day anyway. Aren’t we all overreacting to the slightest cues?
Bruce stays in the same room, day in and day out. His entire existence is confined to about 150 square feet. Even still, he finds reasons to be scared, new places to explore, and ways to cause trouble. His reactions aren’t contained because his environment is small. Instead, he reacts just as intensely to tinier triggers.
More amazingly, Bruce still finds moments to celebrate. A ‘binky’ is a playful leap bunnies do when they’re happy. Most mornings, Bruce takes a jog around our ottoman and launches himself in the air. He’s thrilled to be in his predictable home with his usual creature comforts: a box to chew, a bed to sleep on, and a pile of hay.
He’s proof that even the most anxious of creatures can jump for joy.
But only when it’s safe.
