Meet *Moppit.
She’s the 5 day old {teeny weeny} baby bunny that spent her final 30 hours – or most of it – nestled in my less-than-ample cleavage. I enjoyed every minute we were able to care for this sweet little baby.
We discovered Moppitt and her two siblings when Marley dug up their nest last Saturday. They were probably ‘freshly squeezed’ and appeared to be growing well over the next couple of days, so after researching the daylights out of them {thank you Google}, we left them alone.
On Wednesday, we discovered two of the babies dead outside the nest. We assumed momma bunny was no longer feeding them and that the third would also soon die.
So my maternal instincts did me in and I snatched it up. Declared it a female, named her Moppit, and promptly put it in my bra {I would so appreciate it if you would kindly refrain from any mention of the words: ticks, flees, mites or disease, when referencing her unorthodox accommodation}.
In reading, I discovered baby bunnies rescued under two weeks old will most likely never survive without their mama. There are incredible antibodies in the mother’s rich colostrum that simply cannot be replicated. But still, I tried. I mixed warm egg yolk, cream and karo syrup and fed it to her through a tiny syringe.
Her little eyes and ears had not even opened up yet, she was so little. And precious. And photogenic.
She slept in a little basket laden with dishtowels the first night, and spent most of the next day against my skin. I considered myself a mamma-substituting success for every hour we were able to keep her alive.
She made it almost 30 hours.
And I miss her already. Because I’m a smushy dork.
And that, my friends, was my magical day with Moppit.
{the end}
*Bean, I know you wanted to name her Flopsy, of Peter Rabbit fame, but considering it was in my bra that she spent her final day, I secretly named her Moppit. Because I liked it. And seeing you can’t read yet, we’re all good.
