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Rescuer on the challenge of finding, homing, feeding and
Sometimes my mother went out on our farm to shoot pigeons, pheasants, and rabbits for the pot.
But, very occasionally, she shot a brown hare. A recipe for jugged hare would then be scrutinised from the well-thumbed tome by Mrs Beaton.
I hated hare shooting, I also detested jugged hare. And I won’t forget the first time I heard the soul-searing cries emitted by a wounded hare
– that tangible distress.
Few are unaffected by the sound, and it had a devastating effect on Robert Burns, who wrote a poem describing his angst, On Seeing A Wounded Hare Limp By Me Which A Fellow Had Just Shot. The pathos of the hare’s almost human crying made Burns so upset that he threatened to chuck the perpetrator into the River Nith.
Hares are astounding – once viewed as otherworldly icons of superstition, folklore and myth, they have garnered a wealth of legends and nicknames. In Scotland these include bawd, cutty, fuddie, lang lugs, maukin,
and puss. In addition, hares were seen as witches’ companions, associated with the moon and lunacy, an aid to the concoction of spells. It was also said that hares could change their sex.
Though hares and rabbits are closely related, the natural history of the former is very different. While rabbits dig extensive warrens, hares live above ground, making themselves a simple scrape called a form.
Rabbits give birth to large litters of naked, blind and helpless young, while hares, though also fecund, have smaller litters of precocious offspring born fully furred with eyes open. Though promiscuous like rabbits, hares unusually can sometimes conceive again before they have given birth – a doe can carry foetuses at various stages of development in a process called superfoetation.
While Mum was not averse to shooting a hare for dinner, I also remember her attempts and heart-breaking failures to hand-rear leverets. These enchanting babies are notoriously tricky to raise, suffer from acute stress and often succumb. I have also had my share of losses.
Soon after giving birth, females hide their vulnerable leverets in different places to minimise predation and only return once a day to suckle them.
Seldom far from their young, does are feisty in their defence. At 10 days old, leverets are already eating vegetation and by six weeks they are mainly independent.
Usually, leverets hidden in long grass should be left well alone, but exceptions exist.
Two leverets out in the open being dive-bombed by corvids was unusual. When I received a message from concerned horse owners who had watched the saga all day, dusk was falling. Would we even find the leverets? After a
long search, my partner, Iomhair, and I returned home in darkness with one tiny leveret. Its perfect cryptic coat was blood-stippled – there was a small wound on the top of its head. I didn’t hold much hope, but it was lively.
I settled our new incumbent in a large, enclosed basket in the spare room. Though bright, the leveret was unenthusiastic about the proffered puppy milk. I gently squeezed a tiny amount into its mouth, and it swallowed reluctantly.
Though a doe usually only feeds her young once daily, milk substitute is very different to hare’s milk, and one large feed would lead to serious digestive issues, bloating and death. It is generally accepted that little and often will give a better survival rate.
She took so little and each time there was stress as the tiny perfect little creature battled against me to escape. She was surprisingly strong; her distress at my intervention left me sadly wondering if this was ethical – we are such a poor substitute for an animal’s mother.
Every day I rose at dawn in trepidation, but the leveret remained bright and perky, though still defiant. So the pattern continued for five days, then there was a breakthrough, and the contents of the bottle vanished with proper vigour. Did I dare to hope? Not yet.
The leveret was playful, racing around the double bed using pillows as a trampoline.
Playtime was important, her turn of speed and antics impressive and her balletic movements astonishing. She picked at hay and greenery – hawthorn buds and succulent clover and showed interest in a small dish of earth, too – many mammals eat soil to help with digestion and boost mineral levels.
It wasn’t long before we moved her into a larger box, and, soon after, outside to a big pen where we added branches for her to hide beneath and laid large divots of fresh turf – new grass and wildflowers.
The intelligence of hares cannot be underestimated. Sensitive to changes in weather, scent, and the smell of humans, the leveret preferred to rest hidden in the corner of the pen. Preferring to be outside, she used her house exclusively as her toilet, keeping the rest of the pen immaculately clean.
Hares, like rabbits, eat their own droppings. Grass is hard to digest, and mammalian digestive enzymes struggle to break it down. These soft, green pellets known as cecotropes retain vital undigested nutrients giving a hare a second chance to metabolise its food.
As well as a dry rabbit mix, I gave her fresh greenery and cut willow branches so she could nibble the green bark. All was sniffed and picked at before she retired to her chosen corner.
At feed times – now three times a day – she lolloped cheerily to me, sometimes standing on her powerful hind legs to suckle or perhaps allowing me to pick her up until the milk was gone. Between feeds, I kept my distance. She was curious but not seeking my company. This was how I wanted it.
Once she consumed enough plant material, milk feeds were cut to once a day. Her coat gleamed in the June sun; her eyes constantly seeking life beyond the mesh. The time had come to release her.
The forecast was fair and we found a safe place far from roads and guns. We rose early to give her the last feed. She sensed there was something different. I bent down to pick her up, but she exploded around the pen with the speed and agility of a leaping gazelle. I had no hope of catching her – more stress. Finally, we trapped her in a corner. I made a swift grab and bundled her in the box.
Iomhair carried the now heavy box to an area of blackthorn. The box was open: a hare breakaway so fast we had no time to breathe.
There is something inexplicably special about hares. Is it an aura, a presence? Is it their undoubted wisdom? Like those that came before and others that may come in the future, one tiny leveret engraved her mark on my soul. No wonder our ancestors held hares in such esteem.
‘ The contents of the bottle vanished. Did I dare hope?