Pipkin
By Amy Bremers
Amy Bremers is a free-lance editor and has experience in children's magazine publishing. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska, USA, with her rabbits. Besides her bunnies, she loves kids, the environment, and God.

Pipkin was the cutest bunny there ever was. She was one of those little ones with the short ears and baby face, and I called her my “little girl.”

When I first got her she was the epitome of a scared rabbit. I don’t know if she was mishandled or abused when she was younger, but every time I came too near her she’d bolt and every time I held her she’d shake. I vowed that I would love her and take care of her and show her that she could trust me. I was her mom; it was up to me to do these things.

In the process, Pipkin taught me such patience. To show her that she could trust me I had to pet her, hold her, and love her on her terms. If I put my hand down to pet her and she didn’t want to be petted, I let her run. If I picked her up and she struggled, I put her down. Slowly we developed a strong bond. After a couple of years I could come up to her normally without her running away under the bed or dresser. Then it took a couple more years before she would actually come to me when I called her. But she finally learned that mommy equaled love--well, love or a treat.

Because of our bond, we understood each other. Not that I’m into the whole psychic animal thing, but it was almost like we could talk to each other. Pipkin knew how to tell me she wanted something, and I knew how to, well, do it. I fell in love with this little creature that God had blessed me with.

Then she got sick. This once-housetrained bunny started having “accidents” all over the house and wasn’t able to hop or hold herself up as well. Over the next few years Pipkin taught me something even more valuable than patience: how to love unselfishly.

For her, for the love I had for her, for the vow I’d made to her, I would do anything. So that she would not be confined to a cage simply because she could no longer pee in a box, I covered the floor of my apartment with an assortment of washable rugs. Twice a day I spot-cleaned them and vacuumed up her poop pellets. As time went on I did other things. I washed her feet and rear and clipped the fur in those areas since she couldn’t always reach them without tilting over. I gave her medicine every night. I occasionally hand-fed her. When her back legs weren’t working well I exercised her. I spent extra time petting her.

I loved Pipkin, and Pipkin needed me. God had given her to me because God knew I had the love necessary to take care of her, and I was willing to do everything I could for her. Even as she died her gift of teaching me how to love unselfishly was used. As much as I wanted to hold her as she died I knew she would not be comfortable that way, so I instead lay on the floor stroking her and whispering to her how much I loved her.

After Pipkin died, I wrote in my journal to her: “Thank you for all you’ve given me, above all, the lesson to love unselfishly. It’s amazing how much I enjoy work that’s done out of deep love. I’d do it all over again. Thank you for that gift.” I thank God for the gift of Pipkin. I would do it all over again.

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