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A Hoppy Ending
A Hoppy Ending
Abandoned Bunnies in
the Lap of Luxury
By Megan Rosenfeld
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, March 29 1997; Page C01
The Washington Post
Joe and Sandi Monaco would like you to
consider adopting a rabbit as a pet. As far
as they're concerned, bunnies are cuter
than Fido, as clean as Socks, more fun
than a fish, smarter than gerbils and more
loyal than canaries. You can walk them on
a leash, sit them on your lap, take them
for a ride in your car or carry them around
like a baby that never turns into a
teenager. You can even let them live in
your house and hop cutely around your
carpet.
The Monacos like rabbits so much that
they have 22 living in their Centreville
town house. They have 22 because there
are too many people out there who think
a live bunny is a cute little Easter
accoutrement -- and then find out it
"grows and poops," as Sandi puts it, and
suddenly there's another case of cruelty
to bunnies for the Monacos to resolve.
"Eighty percent of those sold at Easter
don't live to be a year old," said Joe sadly.
Indeed, of the bunnies currently residing
in their rabbit sanctuary, 18 are
"disabled." Joe Monaco, a mechanical
engineer, gives a tour of the bunny
dormitory in the basement, a clean,
well-lighted place with stacks of wire
cages, each with a name tag attached.
The smell isn't bad -- a hint of ammonia
scrubbed away with generous lashings of
white vinegar.
"This is April. Her foot was cut off for a
good luck charm, probably with pruning
shears," he says solemnly. "Teddy is
severely maloccluded, so once a month he
goes to the vet to have his teeth ground
down. Sandy and Oreo have bad head tilt
-- a severe middle ear infection that can
be fatal. Brady is just unusual -- every
time we try to adopt him out he gets sick.
I guess you could say he has emotional
problems."
Romeo and Bandit are anemic, Buster has
a leg that was broken and healed badly,
Hope was attacked by dogs and lost her
foot and tail. And Peanut is the newest
and littlest -- somebody dropped him off
at the Monacos' vet to be "put down";
they are nursing the severely
malnourished one-pound rabbit back to
health.
There's nothing like a hip-hopper with
diarrhea to discourage a new owner, they
note.
One half of their basement is devoted to
live bunnies, the other half is devoted to
bunny statues, pillows, pictures and, on
one set of shelves, the ashes of departed
rabbits -- each in a box with a big name
tag and a framed photograph next to it.
The bunny theme reigns on the upper
floors as well. In fact, it would be safe to
say that every possible opportunity for
bunniness has been taken -- the
upholstery, the art on the walls, the
dishes, the candlesticks, the teapots, the
lamps, even the bed. Sandi has
hand-painted bunnies on her clothes and
her furniture and her earrings.
Scooter was the first. Before that, they
had no pets -- indeed, while Joe grew up
on a Loudoun County farm, Sandi had
never had a pet in her life. "She wanted a
clean house," he said. "For 14 years of
marriage she wanted a clean house."
Joe bought Scooter after Sandi's mother
died, thinking it would cheer her up. They
soon became obsessed with rabbits,
joined the House Rabbit Society, which
promotes the adoption of rabbits as house
pets. They hate the traditional backyard
rabbit hutch, however appealing the cross
ventilation, because they leave the
bunnies vulnerable to animal attacks and
loneliness. The place for a rabbit is in your
lap, they say.
Now they have become known as
"fosterers" -- people who will take in an
abandoned, hurting bunny and give it a
good home. Their vet bills total about
$15,000 a year. They buy two cases of
parsley, 50 pounds of carrots and several
bunches of dandelion greens every week.
They go through a bale of hay every two
or three weeks. Not too many people in
their housing development seem to need
bales of hay.
"It's made me a nicer person," said Sandi,
a former hairdresser who now mothers
rabbits full time. "I wasn't a very
compassionate person. But when you're
around animals who bring you to your
knees, you know you are going to
change."
Scooter was with them for more than six
years. The weird thing was, two months
after he died, his pal Skeeter just curled
up and died, too. "His heart was broken,"
Joe averred.
There have been maybe 60 rabbits over
the years, all memorialized in photo
albums. Snickers, Spooky, Sparkles . . .
Skipper needed 200 injections to cure an
infection and was a bit of a nipper. There
was Spencer, and litter mates Marilyn and
Jenny, who hated each other.
No Harveys, and no Peters.
They show off Nicholas, who was
retrieved from an animal shelter right
before Christmas. "They said he was
mean," Sandi said, cuddling the big, white
bunny. "Does he look mean? Are you
mean, sweet thing?" She puts him on the
floor to go "hoppin' and droppin'." When he
leaves a few little pellets she just picks
them up and throws them away. Rabbits
are capable of being house-trained, the
Monacos claim. They say their rabbits
mostly go in their litter boxes.
Nicholas is a New Zealand rabbit. The kind
that is bred for, um, rabbit stew. White
fur coats. Key chains. But there will be no
saute de lapereau served in this house.
"We won't even go into restaurants that
serve rabbit," Joe said.
Today they will go to a meeting of the
House Rabbit Society, which has several
hundred members locally; about 6,000
nationwide.
"This is a big time of year for us," said
Sandi, who doesn't really like the concept
of the Easter Bunny. "We'll soon start
getting calls from people that their rabbit
is dying. And it's because they don't know
how to take care of them properly."
"Our advice," said Joe, "is if you aren't
going to take it seriously, buy a stuffed
one."
@CAPTION: The bunny hutch: Joe and
Sandi Monaco's rabbit-filled home in
Centreville.
© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post
Company
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