Nyligen när jag läste Stories Rabbits Tell

så blev jag medveten om en poet som skrivit om sin kärlek till en kanin som han hade hemma..

De är skrivna på gammaldags engelska.. men hoppas att man kan förstå lite i alla fall… Han blev genast en vän. även förr fanns det alltså folk som kände empati med djur, kaniner.. och som fäste sig vid en kanin..

From "The Garden"

by
William Cowper

Well--one at least is safe.  One shelter'd hare
has never heard the sanguinary yell
of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years' experience of my care
Has made at last familiar; she has lost
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
Not needdful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes--thou may'st eat they bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou may'st frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd;
For I have gain'd the confidence, have peldg'd
All that is human in me to protect
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, sighing, say,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

Detta är en poet som levde 1731-1800 så det är inte direkt någon copyright infringe att skriva det här.

Men det kommer från denna sida:

http://harebraindd.homestead.com/HarePoetry.html

Och här är ett till av honom:

epitaph on a hare

by
William Cowper

Here lies, who, hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted the morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild-Jack-hare.

Thought duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
and milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
with sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel,
And when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrots pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged feels the shocks,
From which no care can save,
And partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.