Cookie: The Rabbit Monster Who Stole Our Hearts and Several Appliance Cords

This is a P for Pets HOP story. Cookie would argue this should have been the first story.

Our menagerie has always been a bit… eclectic. After our Klee Kai, Fay, developed an unfortunate taste for wild Wisconsin rabbit (a messy and rather traumatizing discovery), I decided a preemptive strike was in order.

My logic?

Introduce a domesticated rabbit into the mix, thereby taming Fay’s killer instincts through the power of interspecies friendship. Plus, research suggested Mini Rex rabbits were practically the dogs of the rabbit world – surely they’d be fine with two actual dogs, a somewhat aloof cat, and our then-three-year-old whirlwind of a daughter, Zenya (whose own brand of wildness I’ve documented in this HOP story). As a side bonus, this rabbit would be Zenya’s first real pet since our other animals claimed either me or my husband, and generally tolerated Zen’s existence.

My quest led me to a rabbit breeder whose setup was rather… informal. A cardboard table near her driveway housed a collection of cages, the furry occupants a portion of her daughter’s impressive rabbit “hoard,” being liquidated to fund higher education. Scrolling through their Facebook page, a beautiful grey and white spotted Mini Rex had caught my eye.

The breeder presented a selection, including my spotted fancy, by taking a few at a time out of their cages and putting them on the table. After I’d said no to a few that looked way too scared, she brought out a dark chocolate and tan Mini Rex, a “brown seal.”

He wasn’t particularly striking in appearance. However, while the other rabbits huddled in nervous stillness, this little guy FLOPPED. Right there on the table. Back feet dangling nonchalantly off the edge. There’s a term we use in the bunny world for something like this: “No fluffs given.” I realized that was the let-me-take-a-nap energy we needed.

The infamous flop.

Bringing him home, I was met with a slightly crestfallen husband. “Oh? No spots?” Jon inquired. But my explanation of the “flop factor” immediately won him over. We settled Cookie into his brand-new two-story hutch, and Zenya, then a curious three-year-old, was brought in for the grand introduction. When we asked her what we should name our new family member, her response was immediate and decisive: “Cookie.” And so, Cookie joined the family.

At six months old, Cookie was a sweet but understandably skittish creature, navigating a world of unfamiliar sounds and a rather intense Klee Kai who clearly saw him as food.

To preserve the calmness of Cookie, neutering happened swiftly (as the daughter of a veterinarian I am obligated to say this - fix your pets!). Gradually, we expanded Cookie’s horizons by giving him a pen in my home office, allowing him more space and daytime interaction.

It wasn’t long before his quiet charm had us all completely smitten. Eventually, the entire guest bedroom became his personal playground. Zenya would often cuddle up with him for TV time, surreptitiously stuffing his cheeks with the occasional treat. The trust started to build, and they became good friends.

Be still, my heart.

With no tempting wires in sight, things were relatively peaceful. The only real incident in Wisconsin involved a rogue TV remote left on the bed by Zenya, its buttons chewed into oblivion. Oh, and the one bite. Jon, ever the patient soul, was cleaning Cookie’s area, using a doggy poop bag as a makeshift glove to collect the inevitable “coco puffs.” Cookie, in a moment of apparent territorial outrage, attacked the bag, sinking his teeth into Jon’s hand hard enough to break skin. Forgiveness, however, came quickly.

The move to Illinois brought a new hutch and an upgrade to an entire front room on the first floor for Cookie, placing him closer to the center of our daily lives. This proximity was both a blessing and a significant source of… adventure. His room, connected to our living room by double doors, often had its boundaries expanded for extra playtime. Cookie’s gratitude manifested in a swift ascent onto the couch and the systematic destruction of the buttons on our electric recliner controls, followed by a hop behind the unit to sever a speaker wire for good measure.

Tough cord wrap became our new best friend. We thought we had learned our lesson. But Cookie’s love for chewing was an unyielding force. If it wasn’t wires, it was the decorative divider panel we used to separate his room from the unwalled entryway, which gradually disappeared, piece by gnawed piece.

Then came the Great Christmas Tree Debacle. We had splurged on a pre-lit, expensive beauty. We meticulously ensured no wires were within his reach… or so we thought. That fluffy tree skirt proved to be his Trojan horse. He burrowed underneath and chewed through the lighting wire with ruthless efficiency, rendering our festive centerpiece a tangled, unlit monument to rabbitine destruction.

Halloween wasn’t safe either. Our lighted spiderweb window display met a similar fate, its power source severed by tiny, determined teeth.

Perhaps the most audacious act of destruction occurred when Cookie managed to escape his downstairs haven, hopped up the entire flight of stairs to the second floor, trotted down the hall to my office, and proceeded to lay waste to approximately $200 worth of various computer and electronic wiring. The silence that followed his escapade was deafening, broken only by my incredulous laughter (after the initial shock wore off).

Just one of Cookie’s countless victims.

Granted, Cookie’s targets weren’t always cords.

Even Zenya wasn’t immune to Cookie’s occasional terrible deeds. After an enthusiastic slime-making session involving copious amounts of cornstarch, she made the mistake of petting Cookie with slightly powdery hands. Apparently, rabbits like corn starch… go figure. A few tears, some antibiotic ointment, a band-aid, and a lot of hugs later, forgiveness (and a valuable lesson about clean hands around pets) followed.

And then there was my own encounter with Cookie’s surprisingly powerful bite. Jon and I were enjoying a movie and some popcorn, the lights dimmed, with Cookie contentedly nestled in Jon’s lap, enjoying pets and family time. Reaching over with a piece of popcorn to hand to Jon, I was met with a sharp, undeniable pain. Cookie, in the low light, had apparently mistaken my finger for popcorn and managed to engulf the entire first joint of my index finger in his tiny mouth before clamping down with surprising force. The bleeding was immediate and intense. For a terrifying moment, I envisioned a lost nail or a trip to urgent care. Thankfully, the skin healed within a week, though the bruised bone took considerably longer.

So, with this litany of destruction and the occasional painful nip, why do we still adore this furry little menace? Why will his eventual absence leave a gaping hole in our lives? The truth is, for all his naughty tendencies, Cookie is an incredibly endearing member of our family. He greets us with enthusiastic little hops and nudges for attention, he diligently grooms our hands and arms, and he’s even learned a few tricks like “spin” and knows his name.

On tough days, simply stroking his impossibly soft fur provides a surprising amount of comfort. We laugh at his “nip nip runs” – a playful nibble on a sock followed by a mad dash, daring us to chase him – or when he brazenly steals Iggy’s coveted spot on the dog bed. And the endless battle against fallen pencils on Zenya’s desk? That’s just part of the Cookie charm.

We often joke that he possesses a level of cunning that far surpasses our sweet but somewhat dim-witted dog, Iggy. Cookie isn’t just a rabbit; he’s intelligent, playful, loving, and yes, undeniably naughty. While many families experience the joy of pet ownership, the unique experience of living with a rabbit, especially one as characterful as Cookie, is something truly special.

Even Fay, initially a potential predator, eventually accepted Cookie into her pack, and they would often engage in surprisingly gentle play. Fay crossed the rainbow bridge over a year ago, and our cat, Squiggles, followed not long after.

Cookie’s continued presence has made those losses a little less heavy. And while he initially regarded our three guinea pigs (a tale for another “P for Pets” story!) with suspicion, he now seems to tolerate their rustling in their spacious cage, even developing a keen interest in raiding their food stored beneath their enclosure – classic Cookie.

If you look closely, you’ll see a guinea pig on that bag of food. That’s because he stole it. Yes, the entire flippin’ bag.

Cookie, the 4-pound demon with a taste for power cords and a surprisingly tender heart, has burrowed his way into the very fabric of our family. Here’s to pets of all shapes and sizes, may they continue to bring us joy as we (hopefully) do the same for them.