On Making Friends: A Silly Article That’s Only About Bunnies and Not People*

By Blythe Terry ‘23

When you see a bunny at Wellesley College, you’ve made a bunny-friend.

Bunny-friends, with their ashy brown fur and eyes that dart in constant bewilderment, are talismans. Once you see one and he sees you, you become forever linked; as long as you remain here at Wellesley, he will watch over you. Every bunny you see is another bunny-friend in your collection, and there is no limit to the number of bunnies that can serve as your guardians. When you close your eyes in your dorm room, they will appear. Dancing. Clad in plaid cloth. And clogs. Then they may have a picnic together as your bunny family, looking down on you from the lush, green, grassy heavens they inhabit.

With the changing of the seasons, you might see bunnies less often. It is cold, and they must burrow beneath a spiny New England forest. You yourself don’t even wish to venture outside, not wanting to bother with your woolen mittens, diminishing all chances of human-creature contact. Alas, your collection remains stagnant. No more bunny-friends may join in the dreamscape dancing above your blessed head. 

Of course, you may wonder, “Do I need to have so many bunny-friends? Can I be content with only ten, four, two, or even just one?”

And if you wonder that, you would be perfectly right. Bunny-friends need not exist in droves. That may make their nightly dances and loving gazes more magnificent, more breathtaking, but higher numbers don’t mean more breadth of protection. One bunny-friend of especially good character, it is said, can be worth a thousand whose characters are markedly worse. So do not fret, even if you only have one bunny-friend watching over you, and even if you find yourself not quite sure of his loyalty. Rest assured: all bunny-friends love and cherish you. None will forsake you. None will betray you.

Back to the heart of the matter. 

The fall season seems to have vastly diminished bunny-friend prospects. It is colder, yes; but apart from the weather, Wellesley College students have become set in their ways. Take the example of Mara. 

Mara walks the same route from their dorm to their classes each and every day. They have no opportunities for new bunny-friend sightings. Mara worries about assignments and critical thinking. Are they doing enough? Consequently, Mara hasn’t acquired a new bunny-friend since early September. Mara wonders, “Where is all the novelty and charm in my group of bunny-friends? I am enamored with their nightly dances and their care for me. I have even named them Paris, Penelope, and Peter, and have associations for each of them, like colors, music, and subject matters. Some of them wear frocks and others wear trousers. To be plain, I feel a sort of love for them. But would it not be lovelier still to have more bunny-friends than only Paris, Penelope, and Peter?”

Mara feels trapped. It’s not their fault, nor that of Paris, Penelope, or Peter. This is tricky. Mara wonders what dances other people’s bunny-friends do in the dead of night. Mara feels guilty. 

Soon Mara will be returning to their home on Prince Edward Island. Mara wants to tell extraordinary tales of their bunny companions. The tales of the bunny-friends they have already collected feel rote, don’t they?

Mara thinks about this, and thinks critically. 

There was that terrific time in which Paris, a snobby little bunny, danced so much and spun so ferociously that they plain fell over, toppling, toppling, toppling down a flight of stairs. Luckily, the snobby little bunny was unhurt and even found it in themselves to laugh. Mara would love to tell all the local boys back on Prince Edward Island about Paris and the funny little suspenders they wore. 

And Penelope! With her four tiny pink ballet shoes and big movie star eyes, she had stunned Mara when she played the entirety of Liszt’s “Liebestraum” by whistling through her two massive front teeth. Back on the Gentle Island, old Miss Ferris, an insufferable spinster who collects first editions of all the Great Canadian Writers on an insufferable mahogany bookcase she made herself, would simply lose her mind over Penelope and the “Liebestraum.” 

Peter could be considered pretty bad. He lost all his money playing cards and drank in the middle of the day. But maybe even he, with his little bunny-made scarf and adventure stories, would be loved back home, too. 

“Oh, well, jeez, it must be most lovely to acquire bunny-friends just when you naturally do and not to worry about when you’ll acquire a new one or when old ones might go on their merry way. It seems nicest, I suppose, as we glide ever nearer to the holiday season, to simply hold our bunny-friends close, and think of them often when we’re far apart,” says Mara. And they go on their merry way.

*This is actually about human friends. I am a real person and I do not fraternize with bunnies and frankly, I’ve never made an earnest effort to approach one. All my friends that I would say I “love” in any manner are human and not any other mammal. The bunny is a literary trick. You were tricked. Good day.

from the November 2019 issue