I buried a rabbit this morning. A big one. A wild one. I’m pretty sure it was a mama.

How do I know?

Because the first thing I saw this morning, right on my front steps, was a baby rabbit. There’s plenty of land and brush nearby, so plenty of space for a nest, but not near the house. Which means something brought it up to the house. 

We quickly realized it was the dog. How did we figure that out? She brought another one. She’s part hound, after all. We should have expected it.

“Molly, no!” We screamed and she dropped it. The second little bunny hopped away, thank goodness. But the first one was a bit more helpless. We scooped it up and put it in a box in the hopes that we could find the nest and return it. 

But that was before we found mama rabbit. Dead and gutted in the yard. 

So, I went outside in my pajamas and my husband’s boots, grabbed a shovel, and buried mama rabbit. All before breakfast.

What a way to start the morning. 

We quickly set out trying to find a rescue for the little remaining baby rabbit. If you didn’t know, baby rabbits are notoriously difficult to rehabilitate. Almost impossible. They scare easily, stress easily, and die easily. We called and called and called, and texted and texted and texted. No one, it seemed, took rabbits. It was a tough morning. 

We went on with our day, waiting for a few other places to call us back. We completed our tasks, ran our errands, and collected all of the supplies the internet told us to buy just in case we couldn’t find someone to take it. “It’s probably going to die,” I told my kids. “But we can’t NOT try.”

By the time we got back from picking up supplies, the baby rabbit was dead, too. 

So, for the second time today, I went outside and buried a rabbit. 

This is the way of living in the country. There is no neighbor to call for help. There’s too much wildlife and too much space to completely protect everything from everything else. Rabbits will die. Squirrels will die. Cats and dogs will come across wild hogs and snakes. It’s not for the weak.

But as I buried my second rabbit of the day, my oldest son beside me, I realized that this really was good preparation for life. My son was helping bury a rabbit, one he hadn’t grown to love yet. One day, he would bury a dog he did love. And sometime in the future, he would witness a grandparent, a parent, a friend – all be lowered into the ground. Thank goodness his first experience was this little rabbit. 

Even though I didn’t want to wake up and deal with dead animals in my yard, I could appreciate how much the country way of life toughened you up. Even though I truly miss living with neighbors and help, I could appreciate how this way of life helped you grow thicker skin. How it helped you learn to deal with life and death and everything in between – all in a normal day’s work. 

I hope that tomorrow, I don’t wake up to bury anything. I hope it’s a normal day full of normal activities. 

But if I wake up in the morning and find a baby rabbit on my front steps, I have all the supplies to take care of it. And my kids and I will do our best to keep it alive.

And maybe in the caring and learning and dying and burying, maybe we’re keeping ourselves alive, too. Maybe we’re growing thicker skin and softer hearts. Maybe we’re learning that life is short, and we better make the most of it.

I don’t love living in the country, but maybe I’ll learn all I can while I’m here. And maybe I’ll be better off for it. 

EDITED TO ADD: Since I wrote this, we have had ANOTHER baby rabbit delivered to our door step. We tried again. The sweet little rabbit lasted longer this time, but it still died. Trying to rehabilitate baby rabbits – 0/10 do not recommend.