Photo of baby cottontail courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Several days ago I had the
privilege of stumbling upon a nest of baby cottontails. Although
having fur, the ears were short and they were blind.
Leaving them be, only
checking their progress occasionally, we verified that the mother was
feeding them during the night by leaving twig patterns on the nest.
Over the days, she seemed to leave the yard later and later in the
morning until one day she did not leave at all.
On that particular morning
my girlfriend looked out the window and saw the neighbourhood gang of
crows attacking the warren. She shood them away in time to save all
the babies and we observed that the nest had been laid open quite
neatly. The babies were well developed with open eyes and noticeable
ears. The mother sat calmy on the other side of the yard, watching.
I quickly came to realize
that the mother had deliberately opened the nest. Why would she do
this? Was she rejecting the babies? If so, why? But then, she was
hanging around. She was definitely very calm, not frantic.
Then it came clear. She
opened the nest because it was time the babies were weaned. Her
hiding place had been ideal and her babies had grown healthy. Most
likely, the coming through of their teeth was becoming uncomfortable.
What is the most valuable
preservation instinct a rabbit can have? The ability to flee and
hide. This was her way of teaching her babies their most important
skill. An attack by crows or other predators, with possibly a
fatality, would cause the rest of the nest to scatter and hide.
Our aborted crow attack,
although maybe saving the life of a baby rabbit, had disrupted their
weaning process. We watched for the rest of the day as the young lay
huddled in the nest, exposed to the direct sun. They refused to
budge. The crows did not return, them having other nests of more
interest.
The next morning, I
decided to step in. Taking the topmost baby, who happened to be the
runt, out of the nest, I placed it on the ground about three feet
away from the burrow. It looked around and crawled back into the
nest, where it tried to burrow in to the mound of undulating fur and
eventually did. Some eyes stared up at me.
Later that evening my
girlfriend observed one of the babies on the lawn near the mother but
by the next moring the nest was full again and the sun was beating
down hotly on the exposed young ones. The mother was still there, on
the other side of the lawn. It was time to simulate a crow attack,
sans mortality.*
I broke up the nest,
pulling the babies out and placing them on the ground one at a time.
As they landed, each of them made a short sprint to the cover of the
fence several feet away. To my surprise, instead of the three that I
had thought were there, five made their appearance. One fellow went a
little further than the others, making his way to a corner where the
grass was a bit longer. He disappeared quite nicely. The other four
huddled into the small gap between the crossboard and the ground.
Over the next few hours they made themselves very unnoticeable. The
only apparent giveaway was their dark, peering eyes, the rest of them
looking like some dried grass. The mother rabbit had disappeared and
was nowhere in sight.
Over the next few days the
babies remained in their (partial) concealment, sometimes bunched in
twos and threes, sometimes alone. I observed some eating and
gradually they began to disappear.
Knowing they would be gone
soon and unable to resist the cuteness, I picked one up. It remained
docile in my hand as I examined it. I put the kit down and it
scampered back to the fence where it remained still as it looked at
me.
Later that day I decided
to show my girlfriend one of the babies. We went over to the fence
and I picked one up. Inadvertently and not thinking, I stood up with
the kit in my hand. It leapt out of my grasp, falling about a yard to
the ground. As it hit the ground it emitted a loud two sylable squeak
sounding much like one would get when pressing and releasing a
squeeze doll. It scrambled back to the fence and it tried to burrow
in, head first, like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. We
approached, fearful that the poor little guy was injured but as we
came closer it turned to face us.
As it did not appear to be
in pain the decision was made to leave it alone but with close
monitoring. It seemed to remain there for another day or so, before
venturing away with its siblings.
The second last to go was
evicted from the corner by myself. When I came near and reached into
the clump of grass there, he shot out, scampering along the fence
line. The durability of baby bunnies was proven by his head first
collision with a fence post, which stopped and stunned him for a few
seconds. Then, the pursued rabbit recovered and charged into a patch
of wild brush we had at the other end of the yard. The bushes stilled
and I knew my little fellow had frozen. Peering carefully into them,
without moving, I eventually found the small creature. More
meticulous searching found another of the brood.
The final young rabbit
remained for about a day more and the last we saw of it was in the
evening. Returning from a bike ride, we surprised it in the middle of
the lawn. The animal remained frozen and maintained the appearance of
a clump of earth.
That was the last of the
young but the following day we spotted the mother contentedly grazing
in the yard. She ignored us as we sat on the deck.
Reflecting upon this most
enlightening experience, I came to realize that not only had this
brood got to learn lesson number one of rabbit self-preservation but
lesson number two as well. When the baby rabbit hit the ground it
emitted a 'death cry', the only time a rabbit will ever utter a
sound. Our poor little fellow, upon his fall to the ground, thought
he had it. This call, to other rabbits, is a signal of danger and a
warning to flee.
The babies were not seen
again although coming home from work late one night, I believe I saw
something that looked like a tiny rabbit zip across the lawn.
*****
*As an
aside note, I will
state that at this time I was unaware of the white star on the
forehead and can only say I do recall viewing some at nest break up.
In a natural situation, it is probable that these creatures would
have not survived.
Kel D. Orbis is the
fiction pen name of Kelly Wionzek.Kel was born in
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.Putting pen to paper
casually since the early 1970's, Kel has written a number of trade
articles for the Canadian Coin News magazine. He won a radio play
contest for his work Checkmate in 1988 and placed poetry in the
anthology Forever Spoken. He has also published feature articles in
Fine Scale Modeler magazine. Most recently, Fortunate One was awarded
second in a contest. Kel publishes a monthly Blog about the Vikings
in North America on his website www.thevintagecollection.ca. Focusing more heavily
on the writing field in 2003, Kel authored a number of fiction short
stories before tackling, completing and publishing his first book, a
non fiction work that details the Norse in Newfoundland, Kjalarnes
Found in 2017.The
firstdition of
the historical novel Yasgur's Farm was published in 2018.An avid historian,
Kel’s fields of expertise include early aviation, Ancient Rome,
Britain and Greece as well as the Vikings. He has given several
public presentations, teaches in educational programs and works with
museums in advisory and display capacities."My Genre is
history, past, present and future. When I write I go anywhere from a
million years in the past to thousands yet to come. Who knows where
the next story comes from and what it will be about."Kel currently lives in
Broadview, Saskatchewan, Canada where he continues to pursue his
writing and other disciplines.