Bunny Scoot: Sanctuary

Sanctuary

This sanctuary is a comfortable space where shrines and their sacred relics are protected. The shrines are constructions of my intent made concrete, manifesting in the form of an organized area in this space (ex. everything relevant to collection); The relics are offerings and spells (ex. individual writings or media like zines and images relevant to the shrine).

Sanctified places (like graveyards and shrines) sometimes feel like liminal spaces to me, because I'm not the intended occupant but a visitor—a permitted presence, separate and removed. When that happens, I remind myself that sanctuaries aren't just physical destinations but a transitory state of rest, reflection, and reconnection for all; the recollection of oneself before reembarking. The veil is thin, and we can leisurely idle in this in-between together or come-and-go. Even if my footsteps echo, the space is not empty. Here, my thoughtful lingering and vulnerable declarations are catalysts—magic that transforms the sanctuary and myself.

Feel free to etch your wishes or leave an offering in the book of blessings.

Bunny Shrine

Rachel	Rhianna	Ivy	Kokomojoe
Bonded pair with Rhianna Larger of the two Female Havana Silky, black fur; Nose greyed with age Large, light-blue eyes Slightly splayed, hind legs (narrow V-shape) Dominant Protective and territorial; Honks and feigns lunges Loves eating If DnD, Barbarian	Bonded pair with Rachel Smaller of the two Female Havana Silky, black fur; Always shiny Large, dark-brown, doe-like eyes Slightly splayed, hind legs (narrow V-shape) Submissive Anxious and cautious yet curious Loves exploring If DnD, Ranger	Bonded pair with Kokomojoe Smaller of the two Female Soft, short-length white fur Light, red eyes (iris and pupil are distinct) Dominant Protective and territorial Adventurous Indifference towards veggies If DnD, Rogue	Bonded pair with Ivy Larger of the two Male Soft, short-length white fur Light, red eyes (iris and pupil are distinct) Submissive Protective and territorial If DnD, Warlock

Rachel and Rhianna are two black, Havana rabbits we adopted in the springtime of 2017. Someone found them abandoned in a cardboard box outside and brought them to a rabbit shelter. They lived there and sometimes at foster homes for a couple years. Perhaps due to the disability placard on their x-pen, their black color, or whatever reason people can rationalize, they watched other bunnies come and go. Their prolonged stay was upsetting to learn, but the volunteers were optimistic: Instead of not being chosen, Rachel and Rhianna were waiting to choose the right people. I'm grateful they received such warm care at both the shelter and foster homes, but the thought of them not having a forever home weighed on my mind.

We visited them several times, before making a decision. Initially, I pictured us adopting a Holland Lop with creamy fur like toasted marshmallows and reminiscent of the rabbit from a picture book in my childhood. But with each visit and further research, I became less concerned with possessing the imagination of past daydreams. Instead, I felt a sense of urgency and personal need to give these two a home they could thrive in for the remainder of their lives.

Before the family addition was official, we attended the shelter's free "Bunny 101" class which was mandatory for first-time, rabbit caretakers. We were also interviewed for assessing how accommodating their living space would be and if we were suitable caretakers for disabled rabbits. Their splayed legs were very minor, in comparison to the severity of other cases, and seemed to only impact the appearance of their mobility from the expected springiness of a bunny hop to a scoot instead. However, the shelter needed us to understand and accept the reasonable likelihood of their condition leading to complications with bodily functions later in life which proved later true. We promised to give Rachel and Rhianna our long-term commitment and careful attention and welcomed them home later that day.

Initially, we constructed a pen for them to rest in and allowed them to free-roam when we were home to supervise. The sides and top of the pen were built with zip-tied panels of grid, cube, storage organizers; The bottom was a rectangle of plywood covered with linoleum flooring and a wood border going around the edges. Within the first couple days, despite allowing them a majority of time outside their pen, we felt like their resting space was too cramped for them, so we disassembled their pen. Instead, we provided them with an X-pen which was less constrictive and open. It has a latch that allows us to contain the buns, when we need to, but for Rachel and Rhianna, it usually remained open. Reusing the grid grates, we zip-tied them together as barriers, securing them to hard-to-reach nooks and height-concerns like staircase gaps. We also pulled all our reachable cords through plastic, corrugated tubing and supplied them with stimulation, to deter them from chewing on "spicy hay". Once our residence was completely bunny-proofed, we only contained them, when we were away from home; After a few months, we allowed Rachel and Rhianna to be free-roam bunnies 100% of the time. We consider environment, temperament, personality, and physical health, whenever we make free-roam decisions for each rabbit.

The increase in space had a noticeably significant impact on their health and mood: They binkied and zoomied way more, especially during their wakeful time—the mischief hours. The aforementioned stimulation I provided were toys/activities that allowed them to perform their instinctual behaviors while redirecting any destructive consequences. I've compiled everything I've learned regarding their instinctual stimulation in a separate section.

The following are some memories we can easily recall and archive about Rachel and Rhianna's everyday life. I plan on elaborating some of these further, later.

The sound of zoomies on carpet or paper rustling, in the middle of the night
Rhianna zooming through all the rooms at night, before jumping onto the bed and spring-boarding off my family's face.
The sound of cardboard being torn off its corrugated core (papery-zippery noise)
Busy digging sounds from within the shadow of their cardboard castle or ramp-tunnel
Rachel and Rhianna zooming in circles around my family's feet, at their breakfast-time and when they returned from work
The ratio of grooming (1 Rachel lick = 1 minute of grooming from Rhianna)
Rachel honking and fake-lunging at my family, whenever they'd lay on the ground on their stomach and scratch the carpet in front of her
Rhianna learning tricks/suggestions as intended and Rachel copying her sister's actions instead
Waking up to find the treat jar open on the ground and empty like evidence of a successful heist
Rachel and Rhianna boldly bossing me around and prodding me with their noses as prey animals, since I didn't physically handle them much (the tasks that give an unfavorable impression like ear cleaning)

Rachel was diagnosed with cancer in 202X. We discovered it as a lump on her front leg that broke the skin, before immediately taking her to the vet. The cancer had already spread aggressively under the radar, so we focused on making her as comfortable as possible at home. X months later, she passed onto the next stage of her existence. I never had a pet before, so I was more optimistic and didn't recognize the final moments for what they were, in comparison to my family who had pets before. I remember giving her extra kisses as advised, and I stayed up as long as I could at her side. Rhianna had started distancing herself from Rachel, during the final week. Their foster mom informed us that Rhianna was parting ways with her sister whose smell and mannerisms were mostly unrecognizable to her. I wonder what each of them were feeling, as two halves of a bonded pair.

That morning, after my family had already left for work, I awoke to the sound of Rhianna racing around the room. In hindsight, I understand now that this was her way of communicating to me that something happened. The room was still dark, but I could see Rachel: She appeared just as I had last seen her—swaddled in blankets and keeping a watchful eye on her sister and I. It wasn't until Rhianna jumped and sat on her unresponsive body that I realized with a shock that she was no longer inhabited her form. Immediately, I was upset at Rhianna for disrespecting Rachel, but I calmed down some moments later and rationalized the behavior. I was at a loss of words for awhile: Rachel's posture had fooled me. Even in death, she had a protective presence. I called my family to inform them of her passing which was probably the hardest day of work for them. In the afternoon, we took her to the vet, and they transported her to a pet crematorium. We received her ashes later that week in a wooden box engraved with flowers. Until Rhianna passed too, I placed Rachel's box near Rhianna's pen, so Rachel could continue watching over her sister.

Rhianna was diagnosed with spinal arthritis in the summer of 2023 (approx age 9). First, we noticed her start to drag her hind legs occasionally, instead of her normal scooting. We and the vet believed this to be an escalation of her splayed legs, so we modified her environment to be only the upstairs rooms and no elevations (ex. cutting out one edge of the litter box). Then, she would sometimes slump over, when in a sitting/resting position. This slump gradually turned into a pronounced arc like how a mermaid tucks their tail when sitting on a rock. She looked like a regal mermaid too, with her shiny coat and always politely crossed, front paws. Once her spine curved like this, she became significantly less mobile. Her desire to explore and meet us wherever we were did not change, though, which was an injury risk. We took her to the vet again who informed us that, realistically, her condition would not improve with invasive treatment. Our options were to "put her down" or accommodate her at home. Because she continued to have a strong drive to eat, interact, and seemed happy, we decided to accommodate all her vital functions from the comfort of her home. Much to Rhianna's and our disappointment, this meant we needed to confine her to the X-pen for a majority of the day, to keep the environment controlled and limit her movement. We also swapped her litter box out for pee pads for pets, to keep her body and the pen clean (dragging body through litter is a bad idea).

The few months she spent in the X-pen were a dark time: I hated seeing her free spirit caged like that, and I developed an unhealthy mindset, when interacting with her. Before we made our decision to provide her with intensive, daily care, I was already becoming stoic in preparation for our goodbye. I over-corrected my naive optimism with a stony exterior that could not be breached by any warm sentiment. By the time we talked ourselves out of goodbye as an option, I had already distanced myself emotionally from her. Is this what she felt towards Rachel, that final week? I felt and continue to feel guilty for stepping in, after she could no longer interact with her bonded partner, then emotionally abandoning her like that. Sometimes, when I was no longer taking care of myself and couldn't find the motivation to take care of her too, I felt like we were taking care of a living corpse. I felt like we were arrogant for stubbornly trying to stave off the inevitable at the cost of prolonging her suffering: Her energetic spirit and our lack of direction presented new complications and challenges that tested our sanity, every day. I felt irresponsible for not considering that I may one day not have the physical, mental, nor emotional capacity to give her the intense care she needed like I had promised on adoption day.

Rhianna and I are fortunate that our family is such a selfless caregiver. While I only took care of her food and pee pads, our family cleaned and inspected her thoroughly, everyday without complaint. However, the whole arrangement was not sustainable for anyone and demoralizing, so we transitioned her from X-pen to cardboard box. We took a large, rectangular box and cut one of the lengthier sides out, leaving one-fifth of the side intact as a barrier/fence. Two folded towels cushioned the bottom, and a pee pad was tucked on top and to be changed as soiled. In two corners with the cut side, we'd put fresh hay and her bowl of water. At first, we'd put her in the box, so we could spend more time with her: She used to nestle into a loaf-shape and chill under my desk, whenever I was on my PC; Now, she was beside me again, instead of me only visiting her in the depressing pen. The box also restricted her movement more which was critical to solving a previous complication—sores and soiling. Previously, since her body curled counter-clockwise, the fur on the right-side of her hip would be rubbed off, leaving her fragile skin exposed to friction burns. Also, because rabbits create a special waste called cecal pellets that is squishy, smelly, and meant to be ingested again in comparison to their other scentless, hard, yet crumbly poop, Rhianna would make a mess of her cecal pellets, when moving around the pen. These challenges were no longer an issue with the box setup. Her cleaner body also meant we could use wipes or a wet cloth more reliably, instead of giving her a bath which can easily threaten a rabbit's homeostasis (temperature in this case).

The success of the cardboard box setup allowed us to have Rhianna at our side longer, whether we were sleeping or awake at home. She was rarely alone and received a lot of affection and attention. And although I couldn't find a way to return to how I felt connected to her before, a new bond was forming between her and I. Maybe, she didn't perceive a change: She was always happy to see me and receive pets, even moreso now. Personally, it didn't feel bright and fluffy like before, but we became closer than ever, and I learned so many small details and preferences about her.

On a cold, misty night, with frogs croaking to life in the nearby river, the moon obscured but its glow—quiet and soft—illuminating the puffed edges of dark clouds, Rhianna passed into the next chapter of her story. Solemnly, my family informed me that morning that she didn't touch her breakfast pellets. I suggested we test her appetite with a treat, but they had already tried. For the rest of the day, she did not eat food nor drink water. I was worried it could lead to GI Stasis—an unmoving gut which is lethal for rabbits, but my family reminded me that this was most likely a result of her old body running out of time and her underlying condition. Later in the evening, my family tried giving her water again, but it was apparent that she couldn't. This time, I was still reserved some doubt towards the signs, but I decided to cry as much as wanted to later and smile as much as I could now.

I did not sleep. I pet both her cheeks, up her nose and over her head, and rubbed between her ears, just as she liked. I talked to her, with chill lofi music and Smosh Games videos playing in the background. My other hand became her pillow, as she drifted in and out of consciousness all night. Around midnight, the convulsions happened, brief, spontaneous, and occasional. I woke up my family who informed me of what was happening. Even then, a large part of me thought the shakes and tensing would pass before a return to normal. A few more hours of this passed. Then, she cried—a sound I've never heard before. It was overwhelmingly lonely and urgent: "Are you still here beside me? Something is happening." My family held her now; I could not. I tried so hard not to spill, but I cried. I wanted my voice to be familiar and light, to console her; I choked on every word, so I decided to refrain from speaking. I still have regrets about that. Did she know I was there? Was she scared? I still pet her. I didn't want her to feel alone. When the crying was constant, I managed to tell her everything was going to be okay, that we loved her, and that Rachel was here too, between sobs, knowing there was no stopping this. The final one sounded exactly as it looked: It sounded louder and tangible, like it contained everything important in it, and her everything was exhaled out slowly and completely. I held her former body, one last time. It was heavier but empty. Then, my family closed her eyes, gingerly wrapped her in a blanket, and we went to the vet to request a cremation and box that matched her sister's. We're thankful I stayed up and that we were both home this time.

Now, Rachel and Rhianna are united, both in body and spirit. I pet their boxes and leave offerings of their favorite treats, every few days at bedtime. If they still watch over us, I am happy they choose to continue existing so close to us. If so, I'd like to ask them a question, when I'm ready. Otherwise, I am eternally grateful to have met them and our time spent together. I hope they're having fun adventures in realms unseen, with Rachel keeping them safe and Rhianna guiding them through, curious and fearless.