Vlad from Margaret Street had a peculiar problem: a colony of over 14 bunnies multiplying faster than anyone could track. By June, they were a neighborhood sensation. My next-door neighbor snapped a photo when they first appeared in his yard. Soon, they were hopping around everyone’s property, up to six at any given time.
The neighborhood quickly embraced them. Some folks fed them carrots and bananas. They feasted on butterfly plants and weeds in my front yard. Among them were three tan males, a possibly pregnant white female, and two black-and-white babies darting about.
Witnessing the bunnies’ close encounters with cars and dogs and knowing that US 1 was only a few blocks west, made me concerned.
My neighbor Alison and I contacted four rescues, three were already full. Determined, Alison, an animal advocate, knocked on doors until she found the owner. Vlad, who lived 6 doors down and had at least 15 bunnies in his yard. A hole in his fence had left six escapes, or so they claimed.
Vlad told Alison he planned to take the bunnies to a farm in Homestead so she shared my address where they gathered at night. When Vlad and his family arrived in their enormous black SUV, the drama ensued. Vlad and his kids, with tangled blond hair and oversized T-shirts, and sweatpants hanging around their hips, chased bunnies into the street, trampled gardens, screeched and created a scene.
As I approached, I heard my neighbor Andy shouting at Vlad to get off his property, calling him a terrible rabbit owner. Vlad, unfazed, said in a thick accent, “The bunnies are indestructible and have great survival skills.” I couldn’t help but wonder if “the farm” was a euphemism. That night, only one pregnant female was caught. Vlad’s wife sat passively in the SUV, detached from any emotions.
I asked her why they hadn’t noticed the bunnies were missing. She said they thought a cat had gotten them, and that they were moving to Pennsylvania soon because South Florida was too expensive. She reiterated they’d take the remaining bunnies to a farm in Homestead and promised to return tomorrow but never did.
Two days later, another neighbor knocked on my door to show me a post on the Nextdoor app about a white bunny found up the street. I left a note on Vlad’s door. He texted, “What can I do for you?” I explained I still had bunnies in my yard. “Free bunnies! They are no longer my bunnies!” He texted back. When I asked if he’d take them to the farm as promised, he claimed he already had taken ten. I mentioned the Nextdoor post. “There’s another one,” I said. “It’s not mine,” he replied.
That night, he sent me a photo of his daughter holding the bunny I’d seen eating a carrot from my niece’s hand the day before. “We got one more!” he texted. At least he was trying, I thought. My faith was restored.
I found myself thinking about the bunnies all day at work. I considered pressuring Vlad more but decided to let it go. That evening, while walking the dogs, I saw Andy sitting cross-legged in his driveway, feeding bananas to two bunnies—one in each hand. When full, they dug a trench in the grass and laid down. One had a hairy, bearded face; the other was smaller with short hair. Andy said they showed up nightly. I admitted a childhood incident with my pet bunny made me hesitant to adopt them. Andy, who traveled often and had a dog, nodded. We agreed to enjoy the bunnies while they were around.
A couple of nights later, only one bunny came to my yard. I fed him carrots. The next morning, that same bunny waited for Andy, who came out at 8 a.m. with bananas. I feared the worst for the bearded bunny. I texted Vlad to ask if he’d caught another. He said no and insisted that many neighbors had bunnies. I replied that I’d never seen any loose before. Thankfully, the bearded bunny showed up again that evening. I fed them both more carrots.
On Sunday, Alison and I decided to catch them. My coworker agreed to adopt them, so we produced a plan. Alison and her husband built a corral from boxes and brought bunny-friendly food—pellets, bananas, and hay. As if on cue, the two bunnies showed up around 8 p.m.
The smaller one, clever and cautious, evaded the trap. But the bearded bunny, tempted by food, ventured into the corral. We secured him and transferred him to a container lined with hay. We texted my coworker: “One down, one to go. What’s your ETA?”
The smaller bunny darted across the street to a neighbor’s yard. We reset the trap and waited. As people walked their dogs, they stopped to ask about the bunnies. It seemed everyone was concerned and watching. Alison urged them along, mindful of the dogs’ instincts and the bunnies’ sensitivity.
Then Vlad, his wife, and their four children marched down the street. My heart sank. The kids excitedly asked about the bunny. “That’s Butterscotch!” one exclaimed. “We promised him to someone!” I explained both bunnies were going to a loving home. The mother corrected her daughter: “No, we didn’t promise anyone.” she said, “It seems like you have this under control.” She kindly told me.
I explained the bunnies would see a vet and be neutered. “Neutered! That’s cruel!” the oldest child yelled. The kids insisted on catching the second bunny named Cinnamon. Chaos broke out again. The family ran through yards and into the street. Cars slowed to avoid hitting the children or the bunny.
Alison tried to explain why neutering was important. The kids were confused and upset. “That’s sad!” one yelled. Eventually, they gave up and left.
My coworker arrived at 9 p.m. and patiently waited, but the little bunny was too clever. After hours of attempts, we gave up for the night. Still, the sense of community and frustration lingered.
On night two, Alison and her husband tried again. At 8:30 p.m., Vlad and three of his kids returned with a flashlight. The oldest daughter whined, “Did you give away Butterscotch?” I finally snapped. “Yes. Your father said, ‘free bunnies’ and ‘they’re not my bunnies.’ You let them loose months ago. Just give it up!” I had hit my limit. They left, claiming they’d catch Cinnamon. Vlad drove past five times between 9 and 10 p.m.
I asked Andy if I could set a trap in his yard, since the bunny showed up there every morning and night. We camouflaged the trap with ferns behind a tree.
Night three: we checked the trap hourly. Still no luck. But Alison got the lead, Miami Wildlife Rescue was willing to help.
The next evening, a short, stocky man named Mike showed up in a crossover SUV filled with nets and cages. We pointed out the bunny at 7 p.m., and Mike went on the chase under cars, around sheds until he caught him in a net. He moved like a ninja wielding a large net. The bunny let out a squeal as Mike untangled him, and I cringed. But once secured in a ventilated container, Cinnamon began to relax.
Following Alison’s guidance, we added litter, food, water, and hay. We placed the container in my bathtub, turned off the lights, and sealed off the area to keep my dogs from getting near.
The next night, my coworker came to pick up Cinnamon. She spent 30 minutes inspecting and petting him. He had two minor injuries already healing. She took him home around 9 p.m. to be with Butterscotch.
A few weeks have passed. My yard feels quieter now, and I find myself looking to see if a furball with ears is eating my butterfly garden. The weeds have overtaken my yard without the bunny’s attention. Despite the mayhem and the anxiety over the bunnies’ future, the neighborhood showed up for animals, for each other, for the hope that saving a life matters. I felt a powerful sense of community in my neighborhood in Miami where I feel at home.
