Every morning, I’d come in from the garden frustrated carrots nibbled, lettuce uprooted, beans chewed right through. I set up lights and cameras, convinced some critter was raiding my crops. I was bracing for raccoons or deer. But the truth broke my heart and then healed it. It started the morning Runa didn’t come for breakfast.

She’s never been clingy independent and strong-willed, with a wild streak. But after her last litter didn’t make it, something in her dimmed. She barely played and often slept alone in the barn. That day, I followed a gut feeling and found her curled behind some old crates, tightly wrapped around something. When she looked up, her eyes were full of sorrow. Nestled beside her were two tiny baby rabbits. Not puppies rabbits. And she was nursing them.

Behind the crates lay their mother, lifeless. No blood just stillness. Likely the true garden thief, doing her best to feed her young. And Runa… Runa had found them. Saved them. Loved them. I sat with her until dusk, then offered her a biscuit. Slowly, she let me touch them. They were warm. Alive.

In the days that followed, I brought food, made a proper nest, and read everything I could about wild rabbits. Runa never left their side. When they opened their eyes and took their first hops, she watched them like a proud mother. Eventually, they left. Runa didn’t chase them just sat quietly in the grass. She knew her job was done.