Happily Ever Esther

by Steve Jenkins

  We had a spare hutch for Tulip to live in, but it wasn’t very big, and given that we already had the vision for Bunny Town in our minds, we decided we needed to move it up on the priority list. Just as Esther inspired our bedroom renovation, Tulip inspired the construction of Bunny Town. We got to work on cleaning out the trash and repairing the stone walls.

  Most of it was really straightforward work. But the rabbits also needed overhead protection, to keep them safe from birds of prey and other potential dangers from above. That’s something we hadn’t dealt with before, and we’d never done any sort of construction on such a large scale. The pen was massive, with enormous old maple trees and dozens of smaller saplings. We didn’t want to cut anything down, because it was so perfect for the rabbits. Having a natural environment for them was the whole reason we were building this pen, so cutting down all the trees wasn’t an option. We’d need a work-around.

  We decided to get huge batting cage nets and stitch them together with hundreds of zip ties to make a single net large enough to cover the entire enclosure. We went up and over the smaller trees, then cut around the big trees so they’d extend out above the nets. The result was a 100 percent enclosed, supercool, supersafe space for our rabbit family to explore. Perfect, right?

  We thought so, but the Bunny Police did not. And believe me, the Vegan Police are pussycats compared to the Bunny Police. They believe (and insist) that domestic rabbits should live only indoors. Never outdoors. The hate campaigns that sprang up from the moment we announced the completion of Bunny Town were astonishing. We’d even get emails that would start out asking questions about the enclosure and being all sweet and nice. We’d be pleasant in return. We’d explain why we built an outdoor enclosure, the extra steps we’d taken to ensure the rabbits were protected during bad weather and from predators, to ensure they received health care, and so on. We covered all our bases, having consulted both with our vet and with other sanctuaries to find out what they did. Some gave awesome advice, while others said they didn’t “do bunnies” anymore, because it was too controversial.

  They weren’t kidding. We’d had no idea how controversial our bunny enclosure would be, and the battles went on for weeks. The critics were ruthless, saying we were unfit to run a sanctuary because we were idiots. I very rarely get blocked on social media—other than by Rosie O’Donnell, for reasons I still don’t understand. (Maybe she’ll call us one day, and we can resolve our differences with a Koosh ball battle.) But I’ve been blocked by members of the Vegan Police and the Bunny Police. We’re always dealing with the odd message complaining about one thing or another.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  No matter what you do, someone always has a problem with it. Bunny Town was no different. People would come in, guns blazing, saying we were putting the rabbits at risk. As far as these people were concerned, rabbits belonged indoors, and under no circumstances should they be allowed to live outside. Yet I’m pretty sure these are the same animals I see in our forest, or happily hopping through our pastures, on a daily basis. I could not understand how their instincts to explore and be outdoors would have disappeared because of domestication.

  Dogs still have a pack mentality, cats still hunt mice despite having plenty of food to eat at home, and rabbits still enjoy grassy meadows and forests. As far as we’re concerned, our job as a sanctuary is to provide our animal residents with the best, most natural life possible. And we don’t believe any animal deserves to spend its life locked indoors.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time our first spring rolled around, we were finally getting into the groove of things as far as country life was concerned. I couldn’t wait for the winter weather to break and to finally let the fire go out in the house—it had been going around the clock all winter. When we first got to the farm, I thought having a wood-burning stove would be amazing. We had tons of land with tons of wood, so it seemed perfect. We could heat our home for free all winter!

  Yeah… that was just another thing we couldn’t have been more wrong about. Sure, there’s more wood on the property than we could ever burn. But the idea that it would be free failed to factor in the process of turning a tree into fuel: getting the firewood out of the forest, chopping it up into manageable pieces, stacking it to let it properly dry, and then finally bringing it into the house is a lot of work. And I’m not saying that because we actually did it. We were clever enough to figure out that we wouldn’t be able to do it ourselves once we started to think about how to make it happen.

  Despite the enormous resources outside our door, honestly, we ended up ordering the vast majority of our firewood. And it was superexpensive—not because of the cost of the wood itself, but because of the amount we used. We went through more than nineteen face cords of wood. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details, but you could basically build a four-foot-high solid log fence around the typical suburban property with the amount we used. It was madness. It came stacked on pallets that we had dropped off beside our driveway. We’d move it from there to our front deck, and then into the dining room, where the woodstove was. Every single piece was moved by hand, multiple times. Needless to say, the novelty of that cozy stove wore off really quickly.

  The other thing I was really looking forward to with spring was that we would finally be able to make some serious progress on the property. We had used the winter to get ourselves settled, and we’d slowly started bringing in extra hands to help. But spring and summer would see our official grand opening and tour days, along with volunteers arriving to clear pastures, build fences, and clean up the farm. Our plans were about to start coming together really quickly, and the closer we got to that first collective workday, the more nervous we became.

  Before we moved, Derek and I had worked together, but it was really just the two of us, plus maybe one other person who helped with bookkeeping or my real estate paperwork. I’m an idea person, not a paperwork person. The transition to the farm had been amazing, but now we found ourselves awaiting the arrival of literally thousands of people over the course of the summer, and we had no idea what to do with them. Managing yourself is easy enough. It takes discipline, but it’s not rocket science. Managing large teams of people of various backgrounds and skill sets—that’s an entirely different ball game.

  We also had to start planning the tour aspect of the sanctuary schedule. We barely knew our way around the farm ourselves—it felt like everywhere we looked, the final layout remained just an idea waiting to come to fruition. There was still so much more to do. So what were we going to show everybody? What were we going to say?

  We tried to come up with a very simple itinerary for visitors. It would include the barn, a walk through the woods, and the old farm road, which serviced the other fifty acres of our farm. The farm had once been a one-hundred-acre property, but sadly, it had been divided before we purchased it. Either way, the old road was still there, so we figured the tour would use that to get to our back property line and then would cut across the top of the pasture behind our barn, and finally go down the middle to where it started. It covered only about 20 percent of the property, but at least it was a start. That said, actually using the farm road remained just an idea at that stage. It hadn’t been used in decades, so it had basically reverted to being part of the forest again. Clearing it became one of the first projects we would do on Get Dirty Day, the first official, public event at the sanctuary.

  Get Dirty Day was a perk we created during the Indiegogo crowdfunding campaign. It offered Esther’s fans the opportunity to join us for the very first public workday at the farm. We had more than a hundred people registered to join us, with some arriving from as far away as Australia, to help get the farm ready for opening day in July.

  Derek and I always knew it was a must to be cautious around the animals. Everyone has heard horror stories about people being injured while working with large animals. In fact, we’d had a visit from the manager of one of the most renowned farm sanctuaries in the w
orld, and she told us a story about how her favorite cow—they were best friends, she said—almost killed her one night in the barn when the cow lost her mind about something and freaked out. Luckily, the manager was able to slip out between the fence boards; she narrowly escaped without injury. But this was coming from someone who literally could write the book on caring for farm animals. I believe she knows more than most people who teach at vet schools. So if something like that can happen to her, it can happen to anyone, with any animal.

  Similarly, we had our fair share of animals with attitude, so we knew we’d need to watch them quite closely as the number of people coming through the property started to increase. A particular one to watch was Diablo the goat. He had come to us after a zoo had a fire in its barn exhibit and the managers decided not to rebuild. That left all their farm animals without a home. They contacted us, and we agreed to bring in three goats, two sheep, and two Flemish giant rabbits. The rabbits moved to Bunny Town, while the goats and sheep joined our existing goat family. Diablo got on fine with all of his pasture-mates, but he wasn’t a big fan of people. He would act all cuddly and rub up against you, and then he’d whip his head back and try to impale you with his formidable horns. They’re about twelve inches long, curving downward toward his back, and both are sharp enough to be very intimidating, especially because they’re attached to a two-hundred-pound goat.

  All the animals have characters and personalities; you just need to learn what to look for. I love Diablo, and I often go into his pasture for a wrestling match. I swear he loves to play, but you can tell when he goes from having friendly fun to fuming and being ready to actually hurt you. He’s like a lot of house cats that way. One second, the sweet kitty is contentedly purring away; the next, she’s trying to flay the skin off your forearm with her claws. Not so worrisome with a small house cat, but imagine if Furry McFurryface suddenly transformed into a mountain lion.

  A few months after Diablo and his friends arrived, we got a call for two other sheep that had been found in a “dead pile” at the end of a farmer’s driveway not far from where we live. In other words, a passerby noticed some movement within a pile of other babies that weren’t so lucky. She stopped immediately, found these two babies, put them in her car, and took them home to be rehabilitated. Seeing them now, it’s hard to believe they were ever discarded as waste. Their names are Moose and Yammy. They’re both nearly black, with almost silver streaks in their wool, like salt-and-pepper hair. They are two of the sweetest sheep we’ve ever met. Moose, in particular, loves affection and attention; he’s always coming up to people when they enter his field. He’s by far the most social of all our sheep, and his is one of the only pastures we could let people into without being nervous that someone might get hurt.

  At least, that seemed to be the case.

  One day we had a tour group going through, and out of nowhere, Moose decided anyone under about four feet tall was not welcome in his pasture. He approached a little girl and sniffed her, just looking all cute as he always does. Then he casually took a few steps back. And then he rammed her!

  I’m a terrible person, so my immediate instinct was to laugh hysterically, although I did simultaneously run over to make sure the girl was okay. Fortunately for me, someone else was laughing even harder, and it was the little girl’s mother, who had realized her daughter was totally fine, if a bit embarrassed. After the ramming, Moose just casually wandered off as if nothing had happened. It blew my mind. Sweet, gentle Moose could be a linebacker for the Buffalo Bills? Who knew?

  And this wasn’t a one-time occurrence. It has since happened a number of times, always with small children. We’re trying to figure out if it’s a girl or a boy thing, but Moose doesn’t seem to care about that. When he sees a child, he just rams full-tilt. Which is funny to witness, but not so enjoyable for the small person. Moose is normally a very sweet sheep who always comes up to the fence and wants to be petted. But he’s got no tolerance for short people. So far, the only common denominator we’ve found is height, so if you’re under four feet tall and plan to visit, you’ll want to stay clear of Moose.

  We also have a rooster named Davey Cockett, and there’s no point in trying to sugarcoat it: He’s a jerk. Davey hates everyone. He will chase you and not stop, often going on for much longer than you ever anticipated running. Just when you think he’s gone and you slow down… you find out he’s right on your heels. I’m not ashamed to admit that I am more afraid of the roosters than any of the other animals on our farm. I’d rather run from a pig any day, because roosters are like tiny ninjas with feathers, and they’re on you before you even know what’s happening. They jump up and use their legs to kick you a thousand times in the span of a half second. Their whole objective is to stab you with their little claws (called spurs) on the back of their legs, and it hurts like a bugger when they get you. It’s literally a blur. I pretty much live in fear of Davey Cockett. As we learn every animal’s personality, we discover not only how to deal with them but also which ones can and can’t be allowed to greet our guests on open days.

  When Get Dirty Day was just around the corner, the excitement was really building. I couldn’t wait to finally get some of the bigger projects we had planned underway. Looking at the aerial photo of the farm, walking around, and making plans is fun. But there’s nothing quite like actually seeing those plans start to come together. We spent all winter coming up with ideas and deciding what to do first. All the imagining and plotting was enjoyable, but I was ready to amp things up the way we knew only a hundred pairs of hands could do. Plus, we’d have a few extra volunteers on hand to help, as well as the board of directors. Derek and I had planned the day as best we could. We made a list of projects we wanted to tackle and were feeling good about everything as the time neared. We also had been hyping it online.

  It had been only a few months since we’d moved to the farm, but it felt for us as if a lifetime had gone by. The whirlwind hadn’t calmed down at all, and our online supporters were just as excited as we were to see us really get down to work. Then, before we knew it, it was the night before Get Dirty Day.

  It had been just over two years since we’d started the Facebook page, and some of the Get Dirty participants had been following our adventure from the very beginning. But this would be the first time most of them met Esther in person, the first time they didn’t need to rely on Facebook to see her.

  As cars started to arrive in the morning, the excitement level was through the roof. One of the first people to pull up saw Esther and me walking into our backyard. The woman was so excited, she literally jumped from her car and started running toward us as the car—which was still in Drive—rolled onward. She realized what she had done and stopped for a second, looking first at her car, then at us, before she frantically ran back to the car and slammed it into Park. I nearly died laughing.

  Derek had come out of the mobile home just as it was all playing out. He walked over to me with a look of total disbelief on his face. We knew people had developed very meaningful relationships with Esther via her social media pages, but we hadn’t realized the level of celebrity status she had garnered with them. She was the Britney Spears of the porcine world, and she could literally move people to tears simply by brushing her snout against their pant legs. Sometimes she’d move me that way too, I must admit, but Esther is my baby. I’d be sitting with her and I’d let my mind wander… and before I knew it, I’d be in tears, thinking about her lost pig family or the things we did before we knew Esther. I’m sure I’ll always feel guilty for not going vegan sooner, and I have a feeling that’s a big part of why Esther makes others emotional too. She becomes a connection point for people. We’ve seen in countless messages written to us that even a package of bacon at the grocery store can be enough to bring Esther’s image to mind for some people. It’s the whole idea of giving food a face and putting a living animal at the front of someone’s mind—something that typically gets ignored altogether. I never gave a second though
t to what I was seeing at the grocery store before Esther came along; now when I happen to catch sight of packages of meat, I see nothing but faces.

  All morning we watched people get out of their cars with the most incredible looks on their faces when they saw Esther for the first time. Some cried, some laughed, and some stood silently and just watched. It was an amazing experience, and it really drove home the impact Esther was having on other people’s lives, not just our own.

  We mingled for about an hour before we started rounding everybody up to get working. Then the initial excitement gave way to focused determination to get the job done. Everybody scattered into teams, and we each set off to handle our respective jobs.

  Derek and I floated around to oversee everything and make sure we spent a little bit of time with everybody, as hosts are expected to do. We realized almost immediately that work slowed dramatically whenever we got involved, because everybody wanted to chat. To be fair, I’m the worst when it comes to that—I could talk the ear off a dead man, and I’m just as excited to meet everyone else as they are to meet us and, obviously, Esther, who was the main attraction.

  One thing we knew we needed was a quarantine pen. We wanted to have a place away from the main barn that could hold new arrivals and also a stall in the garage for emergency medical situations. It had been in the plan since day one, so we wanted to get it up and running ASAP.

  Derek and I headed over toward the garage, where a group of people were cleaning up what would be our new quarantine pen. One of our volunteers—Ted, the guy who makes Esther’s T-shirts, in fact—was pulling up an old tree root. Suddenly, the root snapped, and he went tumbling backward, landing hard on one shoulder. For a few moments, we weren’t too concerned, because he didn’t seem to be hurt. He stood up, looking a little embarrassed—even though he had no reason to be—and played it off as if it were nothing. But then he tried to raise his arm, and that’s when we knew it was serious. He’d broken his arm. We were only a few hours into our very first workday, and already we had a broken bone. It wasn’t pretty. Ted tried to downplay the injury, but of course we sent him to the hospital.