What Did The Rabbit Say?
An animal offers us beauty in the quiet art of their presence
“What does the fox say?” Remember that song?
“Dog goes ‘woof’… bird goes ‘tweet’. . .fish go ‘blub’ … and the seal goes ‘ow ow ow.’
But, there’s one sound that no one knows. . .
‘What does the fox say?’”
The song is funny because we don’t know what it says. What does the fox say?
Great question.
Its wits and smarts show up in picture book stories, but somehow we never hear its voice.
And maybe it’s because we hear so many other things in our modern world that we can easily forget those things that just don’t make much noise.
A workplace expert recently tweeted a reminder to pause and remember the voiceless ‘rest’ in the room.
Setting the fish who go ‘blub,’ aside for a moment, and remembering the voiceless ‘rest,’ in the ocean, we now know that rising volumes are actually causing problems for them. ‘New scientific literature confirms that anthropogenic noise is becoming unbearable for undersea life.’
Perhaps those who are noiseless are that way for a reason.
Quiet might serve a purpose.
Not only for the fish. But for us.
So, when quiet things make noise, it can shock the soul.
When our rabbit screamed, it was a shock to us.
The Forest
In that familiar philosophical thought experiment we ponder this question, “When a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?”
The thought experiment forces us to consider whether things exist when we are not there. Is sound there when our ears are not there to hear it?
Does the sound cease to exist, when we do?
Somewhere deep inside, most of us want to matter to the world. So this thought that the forest might depend on our ears to hear it — to exist at all — is a little gratifying.
Isak Dineson, author of Out of Africa, frames this in her character Karen Blixen’s voice. As she leaves Africa she wonders, “If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of mine? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?”
Will the Ngong hills have noticed Blixen?
Will everything have noticed us?
Would our rabbit have had a voice without us there?
The Rabbit
Rabbits seem to be everywhere.
Especially when you grow a garden. The sunflower sprouts that we labor for, disappear overnight when the rabbit eats them.
Mr. McGregor took care of lots of rabbits like that — in spite of them being anthropomorphic.
His wife put one of them in a stew.
So, rabbits can be viewed as a nuisance, depending.
There are other views of rabbits.
What about the Easter Bunny, for example?
Rather than taking… that bunny gives, and typically sweet things. It is not only a symbol of sweet things, it is a symbol of rebirth, this bunny that comes around only on Easter.
Some imagine this bunny tradition to symbolize birth and fertility even. Could the bunny be linked to Eostre/Ostara? One article suggests that possibly, yes. “Eostre/Ostara, the supposed pagan namesake for the Easter festivals was a ‘fertility symbol” his arrival signals the reawakening of the northern hemisphere, or rebirth, following the long, cold dark days of winter.”
As it turns out the symbolism of the rabbit runs pretty deep.
It is a Trickster symbol. Consider Br’er rabbit who reminds us ‘that a small, weak, but ingenious force can overcome a larger, stronger, but dull-witted, power.’
Or, is the rabbit a “Fear Caller?” Like the story in some Native American lore? In this story, the “Rabbit and Eye Walker teach people how to confront fear by acknowledging it first, then letting go of it.”
What did our rabbit mean to us?
The Behavior of a Rabbit
“Rabbits are relatively quiet creatures,” the pet forum explains. “It’s in their best interest not to draw too much attention to themselves.”
Rabbits are animals of prey — and their desire not to be seen makes good sense.
When you own one though, you know they do communicate.
They binky. They nose bonk. They flop. They nip.
What is a binky, you might say?
Rabbits jump with glee. This is a binky.
They do a little party dance in the air. “Leaping in the air, contorting and twisting their bodies, and kicking their feet out, binkying rabbits are quite the spectacle.”
They are more than a spectacle, rabbits are the embodiment of joy when they are binkying.
And what about the Bunny 500?
Bunnies occasionally run like mad around and around. This is “extreme excitement,” in bunny language. As a human witness to this it’s hard not to smile, at least, a little. Their excitement is catching. It’s hard not to catch it.
They also flop (self explanatory) and lick.
They lick to show their love with small wet tongues. And when they do this to their rabbit friends, it shows their friends that they love them.
They also nip. This happens when you are in their way. They give you a gentle nudge and a little nibble.
They also thump when they are worried that they might be in danger.
And they scream.
But this usually only happens when they are dying.
Was that a scream?
Does a Rabbit Have a Soul?
Our kids once debated a theological point that had been discussed earlier in the day at their school. It came down to this.
Do dogs make it to heaven?
It’s hard to say how this topic came about at school, whether someone in the class had lost a pet or if it was just a silly question for the Catholic priest visiting that day.
After what the priest had to say in their class — later in hushed hallway chatter kids debated the meaning of life (for their pets) for most of the afternoon. They insisted (we learned later) that pets must make it to heaven. Because they had been advised otherwise, they felt compelled to advocate beyond just the school corridors for their pets. (The priest was probably the same one that threw Santa under the bus — but that’s irrelevant to this story, except that when humans are involved there is always room for there to be a variety of perspectives — diversity in viewpoints — and reasons why we need conversations with each other to sort things out.) To get to the truth.
I learned later that Pope Pius IX addressed the issue and suggested that only creatures with a soul and a conscience make it to heaven. The priest visiting the kids’ classroom that day must have been a fan of Pope Pius IX.
But, Pope Francis, on the other hand, says that “canines, along with ‘all of God’s creatures,’ can make it to heaven.’ His encyclical reminds us to “Teach us to discover the worth of each thing, to be filled with awe and contemplation, to recognize that we are profoundly united with every creature as we journey towards [God’s] infinite light.”
Whether or not there is a soul, or a way for animals to meet us in paradise — or whether or not we happen to believe in paradise at all ourselves — humans have always deliberated about and considered the dignity of an animal’s life.
Michael Pollan reminds us that Native Americans thanked their prey “for giving up [] life so the eater might live (sort of like saying grace).”
And that may actually be what matters the most.
Whether or not we find our animals in paradise may not matter as much as us simply realizing that what they offer up for us here serves a profound purpose.
They may or not make it to heaven, because they simply are heaven. They offer us affection, and presence.
Even without a voice.
Where is our rabbit now?
Our Rabbit
We adopted two rescued Dwarf Hotot bunnies.
Not unlike other families, our inspiration to do this was a direct result of being cooped up inside during the early months of the pandemic. These two little furry creatures represented more life in our family and especially for our youngest son, someone more to love.
Dwarf Hotot bunnies are uniquely beautiful.
They are instagrammed about by some people, of course. One type of this sort of bunny looks like Gucci Westman must have done its eye-liner. It’s dark and beautiful eyes are outlined just perfectly in a rim of black.
Another variety, with spots, is equally beautiful — in a less Gucci sort of way.
Our pair were a mother and son. One with an eye-liner and one without.
Rabbits like to live in pairs. And ours did too.
They take care of each other. They groom and clean each other and play together.
In our pair, one was a boisterous teenage son, one a protective mother bear (rabbit.)
They did all of the bunny things: The binky. The nose bonk. The flop. The nip.
And the bunny 500.
What Happened
If you know Out of Africa, the movie well, (like I do) you will remember what Meryl Streep who plays Karen Blixen says as she buries the man she loves.
“Now take back the soul of Denys George Finch-Hatton whom you have shared with us. He brought us joy. We loved him well. He was not ours. He was not mine.” (emphasis added)
The power of Blixen and Finch-Hatton’s love lived outside the bounds of a marriage contract. It existed on an independent plain with its own purpose. There was no ownership. But there was a commitment, all the same.
Still she says — he was not mine.
Whose was he if she loved him — if not hers?
Where does Blixen’s love go?
I imagine it stays, in spite of his death.
Even then, there is an understanding that he is not hers.
Love is an invisible power, impossible to contemplate fully in all of its forms and nuances. In all of the ways we feel it and in all of the ways we can’t see it — even though it is there.
In that moment, as we listen to Blixen’s words, we also know, nothing is ours.
Not even what we love.
Perhaps mostly what we love.
We discovered the tilt of her neck late into the evening on a Thursday.
My husband noticed it. And then I did.
It was elusive. One of those things that you see — and then want to unsee. And so you stare and imagine that all of the time it isn’t happening — that it won’t happen again.
And then it does.
With the heaviness that has been the year of a global pandemic that has affected all of us, in our own ways, large and small, this little elusive neck tilt felt really big. It seems that these little things in our lives — these little furry creatures — carry the big things — like global pandemics on their shoulders for us.
They must absorb some of our worries in their soft ways.
When you adopt rabbits, people mention things like “head tilt.”
So it lurks in your memory somewhere.
When you see it you know it can mean bad things.
Googling is never a good idea, in these moments, because worst case scenarios surface there. But sometimes it also gives up hope for lesser problems.
In this case it did that for me. Maybe this is just an ear infection?
The rest of the list looked worse.
Cancer.
Stroke.
Trauma.
Cervical muscle contraction.
Encephalitozoonosis.
Cerebral larva migrans.
Intoxication.
Ugh.
I called my youngest son into the room and I said, “Here’s the deal. Here’s what’s going on. Head tilt etc. This might not end well. I want you to know that.”
I was preparing my heart and so I wanted to prepare his too.
I sat with the bunny all evening. She licked water off my finger.
You might not know this but a bunny’s mouth is perfect. They mostly use it to care for other things. And their mouths are silent, after all. Their mouths never say things really. This might leave it all the more beautiful.
The quiet mouth.
It is like a flower called Baby’s Breath in some way. Baby’s Breath the flower was probably named by a mother. A mom knows that a baby’s breath might be the most beautiful smell. It smells brilliantly — of nothing. It is the smell of somewhere else that must be beautiful. Of a place that we don’t know or at least we can’t remember well enough to place it.
I held a wet towel to the bunny’s ears. They felt like the mullein plant I’d touched in the prairie fields when I was an agate-hunting child. They felt too warm, too warm like a leaf on a day under a heat advisory, but then under the cool wet towel, they cooled off.
A good sign, I thought.
The night seemed to go well. I talked with my youngest son in the morning. Spend time with her this morning, I said. Because we don’t know what’s going to happen.
So he sat with her all morning.
I called the vet’s office as soon as it opened. The regular ‘check-up,’ appointment was already scheduled for the following Monday, but this clearly couldn’t wait.
Their day was full, already, the vet’s. Booked back to back like everything else. Booked with all of the other exotic animals people loved.
So, the morning went like this. I called. The receptionist called me back. She offered suggestions that were unacceptable given our worries. I offered my alternatives. I stayed persistent. I pleaded my case. Isn’t there any way you can fit this little one in today? I said.
She agreed to see what could be done and agreed to call me back.
She figured out a way. A short while later my son entered the room, ‘mom I think we need to take her to the vet now,’ he said.
OK. I said, that’s perfect, because they just fit her in.
He put her in her carrying case and we left.
The drive was only about ten minutes.
The whole time I was thinking about what story I might write about a rabbit. I had just been on a Zoom call about storytelling and the last homework prompt before I hung up was about listing three gifts. All I could think of in that last moment of the call was a pen and a rabbit.
Only two things.
We arrived at the location and there was lots of commotion, construction, and the parking lot was being resurfaced. I missed my turn and pulled up alongside the barriers and the orange cones.
The Shriek and The Scream
Just as I stopped to find my way around all of the orange cones my son shrieked.
He said, mom, she’s screaming.
I said, what?
Hold her.
He said mom, I think she died! Rabbits scream because they’re afraid of dying!
My son had done all of his homework about rabbits. He knew their behavior and the signs.
And I said, no, I’m sure she’s ok. Just hold her, we’ll be there in a minute.
And he said. Mom, she’s not moving.
I pulled into traffic to try to find my way back around to the entrance so we could find our way in. My child was consoling me. It’s not your fault, mom, he said.
I’m sure she’s fine, I said.
We were both unraveling.
Delivery truck drivers made their way for me. I stopped traffic in my confusion. I parked and opened the back door of the car.
The beautiful white rabbit was warm, soft, and limp. I picked her up to carry her like a baby.
The cement was fresh, there were cones and construction tape everywhere — and we walked through it all. We didn’t leave our footprints there. The cement was just dry enough to hold us. I can tell you that I would have left footprints in soggy cement to get our bunny in that door. Mine and his, my child’s, in our life-saving rush. The construction workers seemed to understand there was something serious going on.
I don’t think she made it, I said to the front receptionist who whisked her out of my arms through the back door.
My black shirt was covered with white bunny fur.
And my child and I stood there.
Waiting.
Until another door opened, and someone confirmed she was gone.
The vet explained there was nothing that could be done. Nothing we could have done differently. And at this point, there was nothing.
What did our rabbit teach us?
The Burial
We carried her soft, warm body home in a drab-colored towel. My husband dug a burial plot and we buried her in the back garden in a bed with her grass and with Romaine Lettuce — because.
My son chose not to toss in dirt and I remembered how Karen Blixen held onto dirt in her curled up palm in the movie Out of Africa, too. She turned and walked away from the grave, with that dirt still clenched in her fist.
When things leave us, it is hard to remember they are not there.
Throwing dirt reminds us they aren’t.
That they were never ours.
In a recent The Atlantic article Elizabeth Bruenig describes this beautifully.
About birds, she says:
“They are flowers of heaven, creatures of unrivaled beauty whose grace and lightness makes them as alien to the human experience as they are familiar to us. And though we imbue them with all kinds of messages — in myth and legend, they arrive as heralds of good fortune, fair weather, or freedom, as well as harbingers of doom, death, or destiny — and despite the fact that some of them, with their skill for mimicry and impeccable ears, can echo our words, they truly have nothing to say to us. They are not ours. Their world is their own.” (My emphasis)
The Quiver
Our rabbit taught us this.
It didn’t matter what she had to say.
She never said anything at all, really.
She simply was.
Present.
With us.
What does the rabbit say?
Nothing.
And that is enough.
The air over our plain will quiver with the color she had on just because of that.
