A BUNNY CALLED EASTER

The lost pet who showed up on our lawn was a welcome distraction from my wishes for a baby.

- Stacey May Fowles

By the spring of 2017, my husband, Spencer, and I had been trying to conceive for over three years. Diagnosed with a condition infuriatingly called “unexplained infertility,” we had hovered hopefully over dozens of pregnancy tests only to see them come back negative. I was near-constantly consumed by the painful disappointment of not having a baby—that is, until Easter weekend of 2017, when a rabbit showed up on our front lawn.

My neighbour spotted the impossibly fluffy creature first, finding him nestled in the grass while she was walking down our street in Toronto’s west end. She scooped the bunny up, wrapped him in a worn bath towel and, along with a comically large chunk of carrot, placed him in a clear plastic bin. She then carried him up my steps and knocked on my door. “Is this your rabbit?” she asked. I had to laugh. He was not my rabbit. However, covered with pristine white fur freckled with pale grey spots and marred with only a small nick on one of his ears—probably from a prowling outdoor cat—he was very likely someone’s rabbit.

My neighbour was going away that weekend, and since the bunny decided to take up residence on my lawn, I felt a genuine sense of responsibility for him. With three rescued animals—a dog and two cats—already calling my house home, it was predictable I’d volunteer to take care of this particular stranger, at least for a few days.

DURING THAT FIRST weekend the bunny stayed with us, we tried our best to spread the word that we’d found him. Given how adorable he was, surely a family was out there missing him, a family who would see our “FOUND RABBIT” tweets or come across the posters we affixed to lampposts throughout the neighbourhood.