Bunny Business

By the end of 12th grade, my future was mapped out: a summer in Boro Park, followed by a year at Elyon College, where I would split my time between seminary studies and earning a degree in business. Numbers were my “thing,” and I envisioned a future filled with equations. The only snag was the summer. What should I do until school began?

“Do something with the bunnies,” my mother said. She and my father supported me when I decided to teach the bunnies tricks and perform at day camps throughout Boro Park.

My father compiled a list of camp directors, and shaking in my shoes (I was all of 18), I cold-called them. Maybe it was the novelty or the ridiculously low price I charged, but they signed me up. All I had to do was deliver.

I spent weeks laboring over lumber and a drill to design obstacle courses. My graphics friend printed up a few flyers, and I started the training. It was an intense, exhilarating time. The babies learned to “play” the keyboard, stand up for treats, and run obstacle courses.

Bunnyhoppers was born.

When I showed up at the first camp — cages, rabbit food, and equipment in tow — the camp director said, “Where’s the lady from Bunnyhoppers I spoke to on the phone?”

“That’s me,” I said. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Voice shaking, I started talking to the crowd of campers. Soon I was enjoying myself. The campers were enjoying themselves. Even the bunnies seemed to be enjoying themselves.

It was the third camp visit that changed my life.

Finding Words

My third visit with the baby bunnies was to a boys’ preschool class. They were enthralled with the bunnies. I explained how to handle them gently. Sitting around a table, I interacted with each boy, asking their names and chatting.

One boy, sitting right next to me, caught my attention. His eyes lit up as he stroked the bunny’s soft fur, and we discussed how he felt.

The teachers, however, acted strangely. They stood across the classroom throughout the session, whispering frantically.

As I was about to leave, one of them said, “That boy sitting near you? He has selective mutism. We haven’t heard a word from him all year — but he was talking to you like a regular boy!”

When the shock faded, a warm glow of wonder filled my heart. I never dreamed working with the bunnies could do so much.

“You’re not going for a business degree in seminary,” my mother said firmly when she heard the story. “You’re going to get your degree in education. This is a tool you can use in the classroom.”

It was a total revelation for me. I was quieter, and more of an observer, but I could be myself, connect through my bunnies, and change children’s lives.

Six Weeks of Wonder

Once I completed my BA in education, I continued with the seminary’s newly launched master’s program, which took place at night. I threw myself into my degrees, convinced a senior rehab place that bunny visits during the winter would be therapeutic (they were), got engaged and married, and continued working with my bunnies each summer.

When Covid hit, the world shut down, but the camps (when they opened), needed entertainment. I went to boys’ camps, girls’ camps, and special needs camps. After a high-pressure summer, I mentioned the possibility of a six-week program to one camp director (I thought it would be easier), and she took me up on the offer. Using my master’s in education, I created an educational program to facilitate children’s emotional and social skills through caring for the bunnies, and it ended up being a major success.

I leave the rabbits at camp under an adult’s supervision and the oldest bunk feeds the bunnies daily and cleans the cages, a not-so-exciting task that instills a sense of responsibility. Once they’re proficient at their tasks, they get a chance to “teach” the bunnies tricks. The other bunks love to visit. Even with tens of campers milling around, the bunny room is calm and serene.

“When you hold a bunny, relax,” I say. “Feel the feeling you want your bunny to have.”

The kids quickly learn to calm down so the babies snuggle comfortably into their hands. We discuss how we make the bunnies feel. “Do you like to be poked in the eye? The bunny also doesn’t like that.”

Kids with sensory issues might handle a bunny too roughly at first, but they soon learn to be gentle. Sharing and taking care of the bunnies fosters cooperation. If one child is absent, another takes over his/her bunny care job. They bond with the bunnies, naming them, and releasing their tension. I watch “Bunnyhoppers kids” interacting and treating each other with greater sensitivity.

One autistic boy, who was prone to violent outbursts, had to miss a bunny session for therapy. He later came to the bunny room himself, visibly upset. I watched him pick up a bunny, cuddle it, and breathe deeply and calmly. Then he said quietly, “I hate when they take me from my bunk. I always miss things.”

For this angry child, the bunny room was a haven that helped him get in touch with his emotions and express them. Similar scenarios happen again and again over the six weeks of camp.

Floppy-eared Fear

While many people love the cuddly bunny babies, some children and staff are terrified. I never pressure anyone, since the bunny room is a safe, judgment-free zone. One child stayed outside the bunny room and progressed to the doorway over one summer. The next year, he touched the bunnies. It’s a process, and when it’s done with zero expectations, everyone ends the summer more comfortable than when they started.

During one six-week program, a staff member informed me immediately that she “doesn’t do bunnies.”

But curiosity drew her, and from hovering outside, she progressed into the bunny room. Tentative touches became cuddles, and when she went through a rough time in her personal life, the calm, quiet atmosphere soothed her. She would hold a bunny silently for a long time, releasing the tension that gripped her everywhere else.

“I’m your number one success story!” she jokes.

She’s not the only one.

Magic

It’s not easy to train, travel, and raise rabbits, but the experience is so amazing, I can’t give it up.

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine myself back in the bunny room. The relaxed atmosphere, feeling of acceptance, cooperation, and gentle interaction make a deep impression on the children, staff — and me. I love watching the transformations that take place over the summer as campers enjoy and raise the baby bunnies.

It’s not exactly pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but it’s still pure magic.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 933)