Massage Lets Often-Abused Animals Relax
By Michael Leahy
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, April 12, 2001; Page B01

It is Easter season, a time when America becomes besotted with bunnies, any bunnies. For a skittish tan-and-black rabbit named Cyrus who is awaiting adoption, this is potentially good news. For bunny masseuse Aileen Hudspeth, sitting with Cyrus on her lap in an Alexandria children's bookstore, it is bad and worse.

"Lots of families get a rabbit, get bored with the rabbit and get rid of the rabbit, just toss it away," she seethes.

Some kid will cry out in a pet shop for a cute, caged Netherland Dwarf like Cyrus, and Mom and Dad will relent, maybe because so many children this time of year see bunnies as cuddly, congenial, perhaps Easter basket-bearing creatures.

Nothing in that description, however, applies to Cyrus. Not Cyrus the Alpha biter. Not Cyrus the territorial Netherland Dwarf who, nibbling at the air, wants everyone out of his space right now.

Cyrus has a reputation, deserved or not, as an aggressive rabbit -- or, as even one of his most ardent defenders calls him, "that killer rabbit, Cyrus."

Not since a startled Jimmy Carter wielded a canoe paddle at a so-called killer rabbit has a bunny been maligned as Cyrus has. In Cyrus's defense, Hudspeth believes that he may have been abused by a previous owner. And that he's afraid of being eaten. And that he's afraid of another bunny invading his space. Typical rabbit defenses. A plaintive Hudspeth tells a reporter, nipped by Cyrus: "You gotta understand: He's just a rabbit doing his best."

Hudspeth, an information technology specialist by day, spends much of her spare time serving as masseuse for Friends of Rabbits (www.friendsofrabbits.org), an Alexandria-based organization devoted to caring for abandoned and neglected rabbits until they are adopted, and trying to persuade the public not to buy bunnies, especially not at this time of year.

All of which has brought the 21-year-old masseuse, wearing big white bunny ears and a gold kimono, for a demonstration at A Likely Story bookshop in Old Town, where she is explaining to a couple of rapt children that she massages rabbits as part of an effort to make them calmer, happier, more affectionate and trusting animals. The kids just stare longingly at Cyrus, who may have several potential adopters here. But Cyrus blows it. Hind legs tensed as if poised to run or pounce, his brown eyes big and lined rodent-pink, Cyrus looks back at the kids warily, the way he would a duo of predatory hawks. Whiskers twitch. Hudspeth massages his back and neck, cooing, "Okay, okay, Cyrus.

"We've been trying to get Cyrus comfortable and trusting with massages, because he's really a good rabbit when he's relaxed," the masseuse says.

Hosting a bunny is not as easy as some people might think, and those who are unsuccessful may take drastic steps.

"Rabbits are thrown in dumpsters, sometimes just turned loose," says Vineeta Anand, founder of Friends of Rabbits. "And the ones in pet stores that go unsold are sold sometimes to be fed to reptiles."

It's the lucky ones, she says, who end up at animal shelters and are eventually euthanized if not adopted.

If you must have a bunny, "adopt one through us," she says, "and we'll show you how to care for it."

Cyrus has been adopted twice, but each time his new family returned him to Friends of Rabbits, suggesting that the tense rabbit had problems fitting in. For the time being, the spurned Cyrus has his own room at Anand's house, where he has no contact with the three other rabbits in residence.

"Lots of rabbits don't want to be around other rabbits," says Val Moore, a Friends of Rabbits member and the owner of a rabbit named Bayley, who also receives massages from Hudspeth.

If anything, Cyrus is hyper-territorial. "He's wary -- you know, because he's a [prey] animal," Hudspeth says.

Cyrus chooses this moment to squirm. Tightening her grip, Hudspeth tries moving her fingers along each side of his spine, concentrating on the lower back, but Cyrus has been distracted by a child sticking out her tongue, over and over, like a big, hungry rattlesnake. Whiskers quiver again.

"Okay, Cyrus, okay," Hudspeth whispers, taking a firmer hold, as much to protect herself as to prolong the massage. The last time Cyrus got nervous, he bit her on the neck and wrist.

"My arms and wrists looked like I'd been on a battlefield," she remembers. "If you stay calm, keep your grip, be kind and keep massaging, he'll understand you're in control, and that's when you have a chance of relaxing and helping him."

She then decides to try flipping Cyrus from his stomach to his back -- the trickiest of all moves for a bunny masseuse, the one that most frequently panics a rabbit and leaves the masseuse vulnerable to bites. The move calls to mind a wrestler flipping a foe: hand on the stomach and a subtle roll and, voila{grv}, a two-point takedown.

Cyrus flat on his back.

And then something amazing happens. Cyrus gives himself over to Hudspeth, who massages his stomach and legs, which relax completely, sticking straight up in the air like those of a compliant baby awaiting a diaper change.

Hudspeth cradles Cyrus, who brushes his mouth and whiskers along her nose. Cyrus the Killer Rabbit looks tamed, at least momentarily.

"A kiss," says the bunny masseuse. "You see that? A kiss."

Noisy kids are poking closer. Whiskers twitch anew, but Cyrus stays put. "If anyone adopts him, we'll be glad to show them the massage techniques," she says. "We show everyone. We just want happy rabbits."

"Isn't he cuuuuuute?" squeals a little girl, who wants him.

"He's having a good day," says the bunny masseuse.

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