Fifty years ago I had a young family of three boys. My husband Johnny and I left them with a friend while we made a trip to the cinema.
It was dark and was raining hard. With the headlights shining on the road, we saw something ahead of us. Johnny pulled to a stop and I came out, ran to the grass and grabbed a small, wet, frightened creature. It was freezing cold and so tiny that it fit into the palm of my hand but I still wasn't sure what it was. It stayed close to me for warmth and comfort. I wrapped it safely in my woolen hat and suggested that my husband turn back and go home. We thought it was a baby rabbit because it had long ears, long hind legs and was greyish brown in color. Once home, we filled a box with old newspaper and a warm towel. We fed it milk and bread and hoped it would survive. We named our new animal Bobsy. We all loved it at first sight.
Our boys were happy with the little animal and it seemed to enjoy all the attention. Sadly though, on the third day with us, it caught its back foot in a door and we quickly realized it was broken. We rushed to the vet, who said, "It's only a rabbit, I'll put it to sleep." Our response was a very decisive, "No way!"
We found another vet and were told that she was a baby hare. We were told we should continue to keep her in her box for a week and her foot would be fine.
After her recovery, Bobsy learned to use the kitty litter tray. She would comb her long ears with her front paws. Her favourite treats were chocolate drops and she was so smart that she would help herself to them straight from the packet. The local paper heard about this and came to our house to take her photo and write a story about her. We had her for seven wonderful years before we moved to New Zealand and we will never forget her.
