Warming Up After a Year of Hiding
I am Azmi, writing from my flat in Meknes, and tonight I sat on the floor for a long while just watching him stay. He came to me a year ago, free, with an unknown past, and for more than six months he ran and hid the second anyone entered the room. My last rabbit had been a fearless snuggle lop who flopped across my chest, so the adjustment felt huge. Tonight felt different. He stayed out. He let me come close. He looked almost silly, calm in a way I had waited a full year to see.
I keep thinking about the first evening he arrived. The carrier door opened, he shot under the shelf, and that became his address. I put hay near the edge, water a little further out, and a folded blanket between the shelf and the wall so the floor felt less bare. I read on the floor so he could learn the sound of my pages turning. Friends asked when the cuddles would start and I laughed because there were no cuddles, only a pair of ears showing from the dark. I told myself patience was the whole plan, and most days that plan looked like doing nothing at all.
Season one: the long hide, months one to six
Those first six months taught me how quiet I could be. I stopped walking straight toward him and started walking in curves around the room. I set feeding times and kept them steady so the day felt predictable. Morning light, fresh hay, a quick tidy, then I sat with tea and let him decide. Some days he only came out after I left the room, and I learned that from the moved hay and the little trail of droppings. I celebrated small things nobody else would notice. One ear turned toward me. Two steps out from the shelf. A nose that stayed visible for ten seconds longer than yesterday.
I also grieved the rabbit I had before, which felt unfair to this new boy. My old lop had climbed into my lap on day two. This boy needed half a year to cross the rug. I wrote in my diary that trust is not a race and that comparing rabbits only steals joy. My floor time became a habit. I stretched out on a mat with a book, I talked in a low voice about nothing, and I let him watch me from cover. When he finally sniffed my slipper and darted back, I marked the day with a star. It felt like a letter from a shy friend.
Season two: shorter flights, longer stays, months seven to twelve
Around month seven the pattern shifted. He still startled, but the flight got shorter and the return got faster. He would dash behind the chair, pause, then poke his head back out as if checking whether the danger had passed. I started sitting closer to his corner, still sideways, still boring. I offered a sprig of hay from my hand and let him stretch to take it without stepping near me. The first time he ate from my fingers I held my breath so hard I got dizzy. Then he did it again the next evening, and the next, and boldness started stacking.
I changed the room a little to help him. I wrote about that learning curve in my trust diary from the first weeks, where I logged every small approach and retreat. I added a low tunnel so he could move across the open floor without feeling exposed. I kept the same blanket in the same spot so one corner always smelled like him. I kept evening noise low and asked guests to sit down before saying hello. Each choice gave him one more reason to stay out five minutes longer, and those minutes added up into evenings.
Today: near me, calm, almost silly
Today he stayed. That sounds small until you have waited a year for it. He came out while I was still in the room, settled near my knee, and washed his face with both paws like I was furniture he trusted. He flopped halfway onto his side, thought better of it, then settled again with a heavy sigh. His eyes went soft and half closed. I talked to him quietly about my day in Meknes, the market noise, the heat fading off the walls, and he stayed through all of it. Almost silly, I wrote in my notes, and I mean that with love.
Photo four says everything. He is not running. His body is low and loose, his ears rest at an easy angle, and his gaze is calm rather than wired. A year ago that same corner held a blur of motion. Now it holds a rabbit who chooses to remain. I keep looking at that picture because it records a decision he made on his own. Nobody forced it. I only kept the room steady and waited until staying felt better than hiding.
What I will keep doing next
I am not declaring victory and grabbing him for kisses. I am letting him set the pace, still. I keep floor time short enough that it ends well. I keep treats small and rare so they stay special. I watch for the head nudges I described in my head nudges and cuddles log, because those small pushes tell me when contact is welcome. If he leans in, I stroke his forehead once or twice. If he shifts away, I stop and thank him for telling me clearly. That rhythm has carried us this far.
Every day he gets comfier and sillier, and kisses feel close enough to dream about. I picture the day he presses his nose to my cheek without flinching, and I know I will probably cry happy tears when it lands. Until then I have this: a rabbit who was a shadow for six months, a ghost for six more, and tonight a companion on the rug. Lovely to watch, lovelier to live. I will keep the light low, the voice soft, and the floor open, and I will be here when he decides to stay again tomorrow.
Next in this chapter…
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