We have a complicated relationship with bunnies.
On the one hand, we keep them as preschool companions, expect them to deliver candy one Sunday every spring and, in later years, read perennial bunny best sellers to our children, from “Pat the Bunny,” “I Am a Bunny” and “The Runaway Bunny” to “Guess How Much I Love You” and “Knuffle Bunny.”
On the other hand, when bunnies show up in adult conversation, the context is almost exclusively, well, adult — the naïve sweetness of the child’s conception crassly juxtaposed with the animal’s fertility or Playboy’s retrograde cheesiness. Bad Bunny, Frank in “Donnie Darko,” Vincent Gallo’s “The Brown Bunny” — like mimes or china dolls, the sinister bunny is almost as common these days as the fuzzy original.
But this is an old state of affairs, going back to the bunnies’ wild antecedents: rabbits and hares. Hares were pagan symbols of fertility (for obvious reasons) and hermaphroditism (because of their somewhat ambiguous genitalia). Some ancient authorities claimed they could reproduce by mating with themselves. The hare was later sanitized by German Lutherans into the Easter symbol we know today, while retaining its promise of magic regeneration. Domestic rabbits took off in the 19th century (the “Belgian Hare Boom,” which peaked in 1898, led to the formation of rabbit-fancier clubs across England and America) and soon “bunny” became the default term for the rabbit as pet. (Even the O.E.D. is fuzzy on the word’s etymology.)
In 1902, Beatrix Potter published “The Tale of Peter Rabbit.” Peter, Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and the rest of the extended family are cute, but they’re regarded as pests. And in the later books, the “Flopsy Bunnies,” despite their name, are both undomesticated and improvident: six children whom Peter’s sister Flopsy and his cousin Benjamin can ill afford and have trouble keeping track of — a caricature (or lonely idealization) of the “undeserving” poor. For Potter’s naughty rabbits, danger or at least punishment is never far away. Humans are agents of doom.
Yet life in Potter land is an enviable romp — several giant hops down the bunny trail — compared with the depressing world of “The Velveteen Rabbit,” first published in 1921, about a plushie with the Pinocchio-like dream of becoming a flesh-and-blood mammal. With self-sacrifice, suffering and a little light fairy magic, the Velveteen Rabbit survives abandonment, sees his boy through scarlet fever, narrowly escapes a sterilizing bonfire and is rewarded with a wild life in the forest.
It was not until the late 1930s that the bunny became the ubiquitous cuddly character we know today. The word “bunny” and the phrase “bunny rabbit” had become commonplace in the 1920s as never before, and by the late ’30s bunny icons were everywhere — adorable, frolicking Thumpers and Uncle Wiggilys and invisible Harveys, at home with humans, no longer vermin or dinner but good helpers. Did this have something to do with the Depression? The fear of impending world war? Did the ears hold a special graphic appeal for a new crop of modernist-trained illustrators and cartoonists? Was it the antipodean mania for rabbit-hunting (a product of hard times and a hugely successful invasive species)? Some combination of the above? For whatever reason, by 1939 the cuteness of the bunny had been pushed to its limits, parodied in the snide nonchalance of Bugs. The year 1939 also saw the publication of DuBose Heyward’s “The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes” — featuring a bunny, Cottontail, who is rewarded rather than punished for her audacity — and 1940 brought Dorothy Kunhardt’s “touch and feel” board book “Pat the Bunny.”
All the books in Margaret Wise Brown’s iconic trilogy, illustrated by Clement Hurd — “The Runaway Bunny,” “Goodnight Moon” and “My World” — came out within the next decade. Brown was part of a movement of progressive children’s educators who felt strongly that picture books should exist on children’s terms, making their emotions and imagination the center of the action; she was against imposing too much plot or the preachy grown-up morals of traditional kids’ literature. As such, Runaway Bunny could well have been a pointed answer to Peter and Velveteen: There was a new lagomorph in town, and this one wasn’t here to teach lessons. Or at least not simple ones.
Brown had grown up with pet bunnies, but when one of them died she skinned it; throughout her life she was a keen hunter with a fur fetish. During her long and tumultuous affair with the socialite and artist Michael Strange, Brown was known as “the Bun”; Strange was “Rabbit M.D.” (When the first edition of “Little Fur Family” came out, Brown insisted each book be covered with actual rabbit fur, which proved a storage and public relations challenge for the publisher.)
Long after Brown’s heyday, the bunnies remain. They are familiar yet unknowable; domesticated but closely related to the forest. Nicholas in “I Am a Bunny” (by Ole Risom and Richard Scarry) cavorts in nature, then curls up in a hollow tree and dreams of spring; the bunny in “Goodnight Moon” bids farewell nightly to an outside world contained in frames (a jumping cow, three bears, the moon and stars), then settles down to sleep; Knuffle Bunny returns home — not to run free, like his Velveteen ancestor, but to stay safely in Trixie’s arms; the proverbial Runaway Bunny will always be lovingly stalked by his mother. Bunnies, it seems — not to put too fine a point on it — can always return to the womb.
Like ancient hares, the bunnies in many of these books are portrayed as gender-free. “Bunny” is Everychild, allowing you to project and identify — possibly something Hugh Hefner considered (though probably not). Perhaps most important, bunnies are vegetarian: They can coexist with all kinds of other animals. The fact that they sometimes eat their babies is a twist I imagine Margaret Wise Brown did consider. (She probably didn’t mind the vivisection connection either.) But these habits can be kept off the page, whereas lions and tigers and even teddy bears will always be shadowed by their predatory doubles.
The early versions of the Easter Bunny were not cute; they were enigmatic and omniscient figures (surrogates for powerful adults), as likely to punish a naughty child as reward a good one. Today, the Easter Bunny is a kid’s friend, a slightly anarchic figure who enables grown-ups’ guilty indulgence with sanctioned zeal.
In our most formative books, of course, the bunny — fragile but taken care of — isn’t a grown-up. The bunny is us.
