When my wife and I set out to buy a rabbit, we had our hearts set on a grey lop-eared bunny from a local pet shop. But when that one was unexpectedly pulled from sale, we trudged from store to store across south-west London until we found Tilly: a tiny ball of brown and white fluff. Suddenly, we could imagine no other rabbit.
Tilly was many things. To our landlord, she was a secret that required a friend's house during inspections. To Britain's kale farmers, she was a lifeline. To us, she was affectionate but fiercely protective of her personal space. She was also a menace, gnawing on books, cables, sofa legs and, during a weekend stay with my parents, their sofa, skirting board and floorboards. My family called her “Bad Tilly”.
For eight years, through a pandemic and personal losses, she was a constant presence, scooting around and poking her nose out from under the sofa to greet us. When we discovered my wife was pregnant in July 2021, our joy turned to concern: how would we manage Tilly and a baby?
In October 2021, we noticed a hitch in her hop. Within days, she could not move. We booked a vet visit, knowing it was the end. The night before she was to be put down, we left her swaddled in a blanket under the coffee table. When I checked on her the next morning, she had already gone. As with everything, Tilly's death was on her terms.
Parents often scoff at the idea that caring for a pet is like raising a child. But Tilly taught me how to nurture a helpless creature, how to reason with one that cannot understand you, and how to manage the ludicrous amount of gear required – cage, water bowl, hay, seeds, treats, litter box and more. My wife swears Tilly was more work than either of our babies.
Nearly five years on, her ashes, bowl and favourite toy sit on a shelf in our new home. Every time I reach for something, I am taken back to our old flat, comforted by her constant presence, and reminded of the complex creature she was and the parents she allowed us to become.
