Quiescent

I have been so lucky to be a bun mama for eight years and counting now, and those who know me have probably heard me muse more than once, on the way the quiet living of my rabbits reshaped the contours of my life.

People with rabbits will know quite intimately the big cushion-like silence of a bun life. Over the years, the apartment has grown quieter so I can listen to them more. My ears hold an inventory of familiar sound to pick up: hay being chewed (happening as I type this), chewed hay hitting the feeder in a soft knocking pattern, rapid paw-to-ear scratch rhythm, isolated (displeased) heel thumps, excited grunting and the startling crashes that accompany evening Zoomies, the creak of the bedroom door being pawed open, the pleased chatter of teeth from head rubs, and sometimes a whistle snore.

These sounds are so so quiet that one might miss them if not paying attention. When caught, however, the joy experienced is immense. Like the time I heard a small, uncharacteristic rustle in the middle of the night and got out of bed to find Mochi sitting in a basket on a shelf half a meter above the ground, or the semi-regular occasion of Sesame thumping twice in the middle of the night, in some squabble that I cannot quite follow even after trying to reason with him.

Two hard mornings ago, having dislodged myself from a pattern of holding feelings at bay, holding my breath in, holding thoughts in a distanced order, holding immense grief in, I padded out of the bedroom (my eyes swollen) to greet the bunnies and felt that Mochi bun was off somehow.

I have become more attuned in the last two years to the quiet shifts in my bunnies. After all, they are both growing old, Sesame growing more regal and floofy as he turns 11, and Mochi getting sassier as he approaches 9.

It turns out Mochi’s left eye was inflamed—Mom and bun both with puffy eyelids. Bunnies are very good at hiding pain. I need to know them with an intimate precision if I wish to catch their deceit. Where are they choosing to sleep; is their posture a sign of discomfort; is the sleepy a lazy day or an impending illness, is the low food drive satisfaction or sickness? Will a soft tummy rub suffice, some extra greens, a haunch massage, critical care, or should I get help?

I called the vet to make an appointment, and the next day, popped them both into the carrier to head to their checkup. On the way, as I have been prone to do these days, I rehearsed a scenario where one bun passed and left the other behind. How would I rearrange my days? What might I need to do more now to ease the loneliness of one bun? The silence I experience with my buns is surely not the life they experience with each other, so full of love, communication, conflict and god knows what else. How could I possibly replace any of it? It is always a humbling thought.

One of my favourite things to do, is to slip my hand between the bunnies when they are cuddled into each other sleeping. The warmth collected between their bodies and the plush quiet of their breathing is a tender magic. I have learned so many beautiful things about stillness and silence with my rabbits that I cannot hope to replicate.

My sister, a dedicated dog mom, once asked me if I would not prefer a dog for the things we could do together, the high levels of interactivity, and the overt and generous emoting. To be fair, it’s hard to compete with the charisma of a dog, but it’s also hard to explain what a bunny can do, let alone two that are bonded to each other. I love the mystery of their lives and the way they will not choose to explain. I love that I must lean so so very far in and down (till Sesame gets up to leave in annoyance) if I want to know anything. I love the terms they’ve decided on that I have spent so much time learning. I love watching them negotiate every season of our lives together.

At the clinic, while waiting to hear back from the vet, I read an essay about birds. The author talks about the way songbirds only sing in a space/time of safety, and that conversely, their silence taught us humans as a species to watch for danger. In this way, we still often associate silence with an unsettling caution.

I think about how silence in my interpersonal relationships can often trigger anxiety. The lack of signals and sounds turning into a breeding ground for uncertain questions: did I do something wrong; why haven’t I heard back; what are they really thinking; did something happen? Silence imposed or silence as answer can feel like a wound.

I wonder about the differences in silences, and why the silence of my rabbits feels so sacred in contrast; why I am more often than not, reverent toward their quiet boundaries. The lazy way Sesame looks at me when I come home, acknowledgment in the form of a single swivel of the ear.

I think about Monday morning, and the way silence and holding back strain all the muscle in my body. That failure to hold is a snapping sound, a gasping sound, a heaving sound, a sighing sound.

When Sesame was younger, he used to find the darkest corners of a closet to lounge and sleep. I would circle the home looking in all the possible spots, and he, silence on his side, would remain out of sight for as long as he could. When I found him we would look at each other, he not moving, and I not moving him. Bending down to scratch his head, I would leave with the relief of knowing where exactly he was. Hours later, he would emerge for dinner, for public lounging, for rubs or maybe just finished for the day with his business of being alone.

On the way home from the vet, I am quiet, the buns in their carrier are quiet, the Uber driver is a little gassy. Mochi is recovering from a fluorescein dye test that checked for corneal ulcers (indeed there was one) in his eye. The vet had told me that they gave him a little cookie snack since he had gotten a little angry.

I know exactly what that anger would have looked like. Mochi gremlin mode: a small grunting chatter, repeated nips, flurry of powerful hind leg kicks.

He’s quiet now though. Mochi is quick to anger but also quick to make up. In that way we are similar. When we get home he comes out of the carrier and does a grumpy round of inspections, choosing to clean his ears while sitting on the bathroom mat. I watch him from the doorway and tell him he’s cute.

For now, the daily silences will be interrupted by alarms on my phone set 12 hours apart for seven days—reminders to administer Mochi’s antibiotics.

I consider these other patterns of holding: Mochi to my chest swaddled in his bunny burrito towel, the feeding syringe up to my eye, comfort snacks for the aftermath, fur that I brushed off him as he sheds his winter coat, a long cheek to head cuddle with Sesame afterward in case he feels neglected.

That these quiescent holds are entangled with the other ones I woke up with Monday morning comforts me, a reminder that quiet is a sign of love, and that love is a strong and steady hold.