By Sue Farinato

It's March 28, 2004. Four infant wild rabbits are snuggled in a baby blanket inside their makeshift nest atop a heating pad. According to the admission form, they weigh between 41 and 46 grams. Eyes still closed with just a blush of fur, they appear to be about five days old. As Eastern cottontail babies do, they jump when I touch them, a reflex that helps startle enemies. After what they have been through, how can I expect them to know I'm not just another predator?

Looking back at the admission form, I see the comment, "Nest destroyed." These two words always make me sad. It's a familiar scenario: The mother, chased away by a person or a dog or a lawn mower, is now searching the area where her babies used to be. The babies, subjected to terrifying smells, noises, and (all too frequently) physical injury, are now in the custody of another species. They will never see each other again.

The admission form also indicates that five baby rabbits were originally brought in by the person who found the nest; one bunny has already died. I look at each of the four closely and see no obvious injuries. At least that's in their favor.

I begin mixing the formula, knowing they will probably fight the first feeding. The smell and feel of a rubber nipple, however anatomically correct it is, often turns the process of eating into a stressful event for young rabbits. Nevertheless, I am able to get two milliliters into each one—not too bad for the first feeding.

Prognosis: 50-50 Chance for Survival

For four years now, I have taken Eastern Cottontail infants from the Second Chance Wildlife Center, where I volunteer as a licensed wildlife rehabilitator, to my home so that I could care for them in a quiet setting. Cottontail babies survive rehabilitation better with a single caretaker. Sadly, even with the most devoted caretaker, mortality in young cottontails during rehabilitation averages 50%.

I am determined to improve the odds for these four bunnies, but I know I can't take them home today. I no longer have the space for rabbit rehab. I'll have to leave them at the wildlife center, where they will receive the basic care they'll need.

That night, I lie awake thinking about the rabbits. I know that in another week the center will have four or five more nests of rabbits who, having lost their habitat to development, will have taken up residence in unsafe places such as yards. By the end of June, the wildlife center will have taken in nearly 200 cottontail infants; by the end of September, close to 500 will have come and gone. Those who survive will be relocated to spots that are as safe as we can find.

In the morning, after a fitful sleep, I walk into the guest room and reconsider my options for housing the rabbits. If I move some furniture, add a window fan, and modify a few other things, it could be a bunny room. I start to work. By noon, I'm driving back to the wildlife center to collect the babies. To my relief, I find all four still alive.

A Sort of Homecoming

Everything is ready for the rabbits: I have set up the scale, the record forms, and the formula warming dish. I have blended the two powdered milks that will, when mixed with the right amount of liquids, be their diet for the next 14 days. Their new nest is lined with warm fuzzy material atop a baby blanket, under which the heating pad is set on low. Thus begins my spring—and the precarious journey for the baby rabbits.

That precariousness makes itself immediately felt. That night, one of the bunnies dies. I'm disappointed, but not surprised. It's part of taking care of baby rabbits.

By April 6, less than two weeks after these rabbits entered my life, they've become noticeably stronger and larger. On April 12, each weighs in at a healthy 90 to 100 grams. They're now eating a variety of grasses, dandelions, plantain, ground ivy, and wild strawberry—all picked fresh daily for them. They are beginning to display territorial behavior, such as attacking my hand when I clean their cage, which is a sign they are getting ready to live on their own.

What they need now is a warmer, drier night, so I can release them back into the wild. The orchard behind my house would be ideal, but there are cats in the neighborhood, a major threat to small rabbits.

My target release date is either April 16 or 17. The weather forecast looks good, with temperatures in the 70s. I have located an ideal spot for their release. With only one more day to go, I have high hopes that these three babies will live long and prosper, a phrase I always whisper when I say goodbye.

April 17 turns out warm and dry enough to set them free, and they are certainly ready. As I pick up each bunny for the last time and place them in a cardboard box for transport, each tries to escape. A 20-minute ride later, we're at an old barn with high grass and brambles all around it. Crouching under a thicket, I untape the box and tilt it on one side. The rabbits look out tentatively, then one scrambles forward. The others follow, and in seconds they are gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. I suspect they did, too.

As happy as I am to see my charges thrive, I can't help but think of all the other wild animals I'll see this summer who will have lost their homes or been injured because of human activities. I know many people feel as I do, and with some of us, our concern for these animals gets converted into taking up wildlife rehabilitation. It is our way of making up for the harm that has been done. It's also greatly rewarding when we can nurture a wild animal and return him or her to the wild.

The HSUS has recently published a full-color pamphlet on wildlife rehabilitation. This helpful guide explains the goals of wildlife rehabilitation and includes information on how you can get involved. To request a free copy, contact The HSUS Wildlife and Habitat Protection section at 202-452-1100 or wildlife@hsus.org.

Sue Farinato is a licensed wildlife rehabilitator working through Second Chance Wildlife Center in Gaithersburg, Maryland. She is also the Public Outreach Coordinator for The HSUS's Wildlife Land Trust.