Stormie’s Story: A Former Easter Bunny’s Tale
By Beth Williams
She stared out of the tiny plastic window, watching people get into and out of their cars, driving to and from what had been her prison for months, maybe even years. Her spine, crippled with arthritis and worsened by the thin metal wire she sat on without reprieve 24 hours a day, made her justifiably cranky. But, no one knew of her suffering. No one knew that she grunted and lunged because she hurt.
All they saw was the sign: “Attack Rabbit: Do Not Touch.” So, no one touched or talked to her.
She wasn’t alone. Three rows of homeless rabbits – a white, almost hairless pinked-eyed bunny, her body pox marked with what looked like cigarette burns; an injured black and white Dutch, the bone in her leg sticking out, making it impossible for her to move; a forlorn cocoa-colored lop – sat in tiny cages with barely enough room to turn around, eating rotten vegetables, drinking murky water, and having nothing to occupy their hours alone. The pellets of poop filled the trays beneath the wire flooring, almost creating a cushion for feet blistered with sores.
The shelter provided little more than a reprieve from the cold rain and harsh snow of a New England winter. Even on the coast of Connecticut, where snowfall wasn’t as common as in the inland, the cold stung and the heat blistered. While the dogs and cats remained warm inside the shelter, the rabbits lived outdoors in their tiny cages, protected only by a thin green tarp littered with tears that let the bitter cold in.
A stocky man with silver wire-rimmed glasses and plump cheeks ran the “rabbit house,” as he proudly called it. Always wearing his Army-green animal control officer’s uniform, he boasted about his keen ability to cut a rabbit’s teeth down without anesthesia, about the rabbits he kept in the same tiny cages and under the same green tarp in his own backyard, and the proper way to stun a rabbit before feeding him to a snake, enough to raise both my eyebrows and my concerns.
Stormie – as she would later become – didn’t look like an attack rabbit: A black Silver Marten with a pure white belly, she always looked dainty, even on the uncomfortable wire, with her two front paws pressed gently together as she shifted her weight onto the front half of her body. Her large brown eyes looked almost black because they were so dull. She sat staring out of her window and I could almost see her dreaming of where she had been and where she wanted to go. I, too, wondered who had left her here and why.
A little boy, who incessantly talked of being a vet when he grew up crowned her Duchess, but even he wouldn’t touch her. I opened her tiny cage door, determined to win her trust, starting by giving her fresh greens, a box to hide in, and toys to play with. She looked at me, grunted and lunged, aiming to bite my gloved hand.
I spoke to her softly, telling her I knew how she felt. I’d never been stuck in a cage, I told her, but I had spent many years wistfully staring out of my bedroom window, wishing I was somewhere else without a way to get there. She listened, her breathing slowing to normal, but still would not allow me to touch her.
I leaned my head into her cage, talking to her every day, hoping she would learn to trust me. You will come home with me, away from this horrible place, I promised her. Just wait.
Unlike the other rabbits at the shelter, many of whom craved and welcomed the affection of a hug and time to run around, Stormie struggled, grunted, growled, and lunged. Her dainty paws grasped onto the wire. Her body tensed. She fought.
* * *
When I gently let her out of the darkness of the box, she looked around – her brown eyes wide, the blue and white Christmas lights, strewn along the living room wall, twinkling in them. She, Thumper, and Midnight – plucked from the coldness of the shelter, out of their tiny wire prisons for the final time – stared at their new home, in an awe reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning.
They knew. Some people say that animals are stupid, but my three knew they were home, that their time in prison had ended. Stormie, who would eventually spend her days running free in the house, cautiously investigated her new home, a large dog pen with a soft blanket to lie on, fresh green hay, and clear water. After a thorough investigation, she flopped onto her side – a sure sign of bunny happiness.
Stormie took charge within weeks, spending her days lying next to me, the dullness of her eyes giving way to a brightness, as if they were always reflecting the Christmas lights. Her grunting and growling – symptoms of the pain from arthritis that ripped at her spine and not being spayed – subsided with pain medication and a much-needed spay. An elder bunny, Stormie was lucky. Many unspayed female rabbits suffer from uterine cancer, often a long, painful death sentence.
Gone was the angry, untrusting rabbit stuck in a tiny wire cage. Life was on her terms now: She allowed me to pet her when she wanted pet. She sat next to me as long as she wanted, and I could hold her but only for a few minutes at a time before she squirmed to get down. And, she became my driving companion on Saturday afternoon errands, sitting in the front passenger seat, looking out the window, excited about where we would go next.
* * *
Stormie fell in love with Noel almost immediately. He was just a baby – a pink-eyed Himalayan dwarf with a brown nose – and reminded me of a little koala bear. I fostered him for a rescue soon after I adopted Stormie, but as soon as he came home, I knew he would remain part of the family.
Stormie and Noel spent their days nose-to-nose, lying together, running around together, and chasing me for their daily carrot and greens. They were inseparable, even after I felt the first bump under the skin in his belly.
The first tumor came off during surgery, the vet confident that Noel would make a full recovery, that the cancer hadn’t spread. But, it had spread, as we would learn five months later. A huge tumor covered his heart, leaving us with no choice but to wait for him to let us know when he was ready to go.
Stormie was there to say goodbye – before the vet injected the medicine into Noel’s veins and after his heart had stopped. She changed subtly, and the brightness in her eyes began to dull. The medicine that she once ran for and lapped up like an eager puppy no longer interested her. She bonded with Riley and Midnight, bossing them around, but her energy began to wane as she slept more in the sun and slowly began to pull away from us.
* * *
Connecticut was far from memory on that balmy August morning in South Jersey in 2005, only a week before Hurricane Katrina and not even a year after Noel’s death. I awoke early – before seven, virtually the middle of the night for someone who barely made it to bed by four – to see Stormie, stretched out, her head hanging over her water bowl as if she was thirsty but didn’t have the energy to drink. The shine in her eyes had dulled even more. I knew Stormie. Something was wrong.
We arrived at the vet’s office as soon as the receptionist unlocked the front door. Stormie sat quietly in my arms after her X-rays as the vet pronounced her healthy: No gas in her stomach. No blockage. No G.I. stasis – the illness that often quietly strikes its victims, shutting down their gastrointestinal tract and killing them, many times before their families knew anything was even wrong. G.I. stasis had killed our Puddles, so I was always on guard and temporarily breathed a sigh of relief.
But, that morning when I woke up, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew deep down that it was Stormie’s final day.
* * *
Stormie’s death brought peace to someone else. Her name was Julie. She remembered Stormie, having seen the “Attack Rabbit” sign on her cage nine months before I adopted her. At the time, Julie had adopted a bunny, Millie, separating Millie from her sister and bond mate, a mistake Julie would lament until Stormie’s death four years later.
She didn’t know at the time, she wrote to me the day after Stormie’s death, that it was wrong to break apart bonded rabbits. She described Millie’s sister. Her sister was Cocoa, the forlorn cocoa-colored lop rabbit I hugged every day. I had good news for Julie: Cocoa had been adopted, going to a loving family.
Maybe, Julie wrote in her next email, letting her know that Millie’s sister was okay, assuaging her guilt, was Stormie’s first act as an angel.
* * *
Eight years have passed since I adopted Stormie. Her urn sits on a shelf in the living room, still part of the family. We laugh as I tell stories about her – the way she chased our budgie, Bailey, from the litter box; how, when she wanted the pellet bowl all to herself, she would nip Riley and Midnight in the butt; and the excitement turned to annoyance when we spent two hours driving around lost in South Jersey, in search of a store that was right around the corner.
Midnight and Thumper are the last of the Connecticut bunnies in the family. Midnight’s spunk still remains as Thumper begins a battle against cancer. Connecticut has not been home for years, yet it will forever remain a part of who we are and why we are together: Before then, I had little idea that rabbits could be and were treated so poorly by so many. I didn’t know they could suffer from depression like humans. And, I was clueless to the fact that so many were simply dumped in shelters, left in the wild to die, or neglected in backyard hutches.
Stormie taught me that with a little love, attention, and time, even the angriest, most frightened animals can transform into loving companions. But, perhaps even more, she taught me to fight against the injustice so many house rabbits are forced to endure, a fight I started in Connecticut and continue today, in memory of Stormie, my own bunnies, and those bunnies who never knew the love of a family or the comfort of their own home.

