First frost. The grass crunched under the heavy tread of my Muck boots as I walked, coffee cup in hand, toward the rabbitry. Chores are routine and start early, and my two Czech shepherds — Scout and Beau — foreshadow my arrival. Together, noses to the ground, sniffing for raccoons, possums or mice, the dogs make their rounds, circling the cages, signaling to the rabbits that timothy hay and fresh water are soon to come. In anticipation, the rabbits stand on their hind legs and rattle their cage doors and feeders. It’s like a scene from a prison film where inmates bang and clang on the cell bars with metal cups. But this day was different. No clanging, no banging. All was quiet.

When I got closer, I saw Mabel, the grand matriarch of our rabbit herd, lying on her side. Her breathing was labored and shallow — barely discernible. Her body, slightly twisted. She appeared suddenly bony and frail, when just weeks before she’d seemed plump with a generous dewlap. But I wasn’t altogether surprised. Mabel had been telling me since late summer that something was awry. She’d stopped eating hay and only wanted pellets. When I reached my hands into her cage at feeding times, she rested her head on my wrists, wanting the back of her neck scratched. She was unusually cuddly. And then, on that first frosty morning, the cold had dug deep. She appeared lifeless.

Mabel was a Crème d’Argent, an orange creamsicle-colored heritage breed that has become extinct in all countries except the U.S. and the U.K. In 2006, the American Rabbit Breeders Association and the Crème d’Argent Rabbit Federation estimated the global population at less than 1,000 animals. “Crèmes,” as they are called, are considered a heritage meat breed, and that’s exactly why we raise and breed them. 

We are a family of unabashed carnivores, and we decided years ago, that if we were going to eat meat, we should know where it comes from. Mabel, our matriarch, produced the kits that helped make that goal possible.

With Mabel’s help, we raise rabbits, along with chickens, and it has been more than five years since we purchased anything but beef and the occasional fish from the store. Our children are involved with various stages of the harvesting processes and they have come to understand the connection between themselves and their protein.

Despite all the years of raising and harvesting, it still hit hard that morning, seeing Mabel there, on her side. When I arrived at her cage, I reached in, picked her up and held her against my chest. I stroked her head and smiled at the memory of her first — and only — 4H rabbit show, all the kits she birthed and her sweet disposition. She was our first Crème, and was one of the last. And I could see she was suffering. I spoke to her softly, and thanked her, before dispatching her there on the cold ground. 

That loss of a life is something we never take lightly. When it’s time to harvest or dispatch a wounded or sick animal, we do it with humility, reverence and gratitude. We remind ourselves, in those dark moments, that we are blessed, that life and death are inextricably linked, that we should never take what we have for granted, that everything is connected and everything has a cost.