How to milk rabbits

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Nov. 27, 2009

Did you know that you can milk rabbits? A mother rabbit only nurses her kits once or twice a day for fewer than five minutes. Even with such Spartan feedings, these little creatures grow from blind, limp, hairless rats to become small, fuzzy hoppers. In three weeks, they are a perfect miniature of a rabbit. If anything affirms the love of our Creator, it is in seeing new life.


Maybe you can’t milk rabbits, but I know how. This is my fourth (but not final) column on the pet rabbits we had in California. As a matter of fact, today's' column marks my 80th one since coming to Warrenton in 2005. (Not that I’ve been keeping track.)


We had rabbits for eighteen months a decade ago, and now I’m going to talk as if I'm some big rabbit expert. This is the miracle of American marketing. (The “big” part I’ve attained, but “expert” is doubtful.) Soon you are going to believe that I am, indeed, a big rabbit expert. This is the miracle of American consumerism. Someone puts it out there, and many of us gobble it up.


Here's a brief recap of my rabbit columns. (Like I am acquainted with “brief.”) We thought we had three female rabbits, but we had a reverse trio: two males and one female. (Usually a trio consists of one buck and two does.) While under the impression that females were housed together, there was some unauthorized mating. When the males were together, there was unauthorized fighting. No, I'm not talking about dorm arrangements – we are still talking rabbits.


My husband had threatened to do target practice on rabbits if they cost him one second of time or caused him one ounce of sweat. Soon, he was busy building a six-foot hutch with three separate enclosures. The much sought-after female was soon with kits. A rabbits can bear one to fifteen of them in about 31 days. Right after kindling, rabbits are not averse to immediately repeating the cycle.


My older daughters were nine and seven when they marked the due date on the calendar. As they counted down days, the two little Marsha the Milkmaids calculated their profits. They were going to sell baby bunnies, of course.


They set their prices – should it be $ 5 per rabbit, or $ 20, like the pet store? Oh, fine – they could charge like the pet store. Their line of imaginary customers was undeterred by price.


How many bunnies should they bank on? The books said a litter could consist of one to fifteen, so they would be conservative and estimate a dozen. This female rabbit was looking more and more like a cash cow. Her litter could generate $ 240. I tried to inject doses of reality, but it's hard to be the hypodermic syringe in someone's hot air balloon of joy.


As the day approached, we put in a nest box. Sure enough, the morning arrived. The girls came squealing in from the backyard. There were four bunnies. Look, look! My daughters had brought them in. Two that they held out were cold and stiff. “Oh, honey,” I knew they had never touched death before. Fuzzy, the mother, must have kindled in the night, but not into the lined nest box. A kit that has fallen out of the nest box can sometimes be warmed and “brought back,” but these were too far gone. The other two had bloodied forepaws. Had Fuzzy been a little overzealous in cleaning her babies?


We then made the fateful decision to take over the care of the kits. Fuzzy was a novice at this. We should have realized then that so were we. We read up and prepared the substitute formula, complete with bonemeal. We put the babies into little newborn socks. We got droppers out and got busy playing mother rabbit. It didn't take long to find out that the Good Lord has already done a perfect casting job. Real mother rabbits suit that role best. The two little survivors did not make it long under our care. One got too cold, and all our desperate rewarming efforts were of no avail. We overfed the other baby or fed it too quickly. Dropper poised as usual, at the tiny mouth of the newborn, the babe sputtered as it suckled, and formula seeped up out of its nostrils. Death is a terrible enough thing to witness. Worse still is when it comes from your hands.


We were going to have a few more tries before our adventures were over. But at that time, we learned ever so much, far beyond the “don't count and cash in your bunnies before they hatch” aphorism. We learned the wonder and marvel of life itself, and the beauty of the Breath of Life. We learned that we do not hold it in our hands, and we have not the power to give it.


I hope you and your loved ones had a wonderful Thanksgiving together. Thank you, Friend, for being my reader.