I can never remember whether I fell in love with rabbits thanks to Watership Down or whether the reason I loved Watership Down so much was because I already had a pet rabbit. Either way, it was the backend of the 1970s when Titan came into our suburban London lives; I was 10, my sister 11. He was an Old English kitten (yes, baby rabbits are kittens, not bunnies) with velvety brown ears and a smooth white coat spattered with brown markings, including a patch around each eye and another covering his ever-quivering nose.
To say Titan came into our lives isn’t strictly correct. It was Titania who arrived in the straw-lined cardboard box. My grandad made a fabulous hutch, from which we’d carry our “Queen of the Fairies” to a solid wood pen on the lawn. Within a few weeks, she was leaping effortlessly over the side and exploring the whole garden (walled, thankfully) with that characteristic hop and sniff. It was then, owing to certain rabbity behaviours, that we discovered she was actually a he. The cat quickly learned to steer clear after repeated randy mountings.
My sister and I, rather pleased with our pet’s name, were crestfallen at first. But Dad suggested we shorten it to Titan, telling us that it meant “strong and powerful”.
A rabbit as resourceful as Hazel, as brave as Bigwig, Titan lived up to his name. I once saw him through the window pinned to the ground by a fox, kicking vigorously. The fox ran off at the sound of my screams and Titan bolted into the burrow he’d begun digging in one of the flower beds. He was still there at nightfall, and I remember our desperation as we stood in the garden by torchlight, pleading with him to come out.
Adventurous as he was, Titan was not averse to some pampering. I loved to sit him on my lap and stroke him, especially that soft caramel patch behind his ears, and he’d signal his approval by licking my hand with his quick tongue. On cold nights, we made him a hot-water bottle out of one of those oblong glass bottles you used to get fruit juice in.
In 1985, we got a puppy. It seems something of a betrayal now and I cannot deny that as teenagers we were more enamoured with the dog than the rabbit (or the longsuffering cat). But Titan took to Riley with his usual, er … lust for life and incredibly, the two became firm friends.
Titan’s burrow was a lifelong work. He would spend some time digging each day before hopping into the unused bird bath for a rest. We often wondered if it was a bid for freedom. If it was, then it would have been a blow when he finally emerged at the other end of his tunnel and found himself a few metres away in the same garden. But nothing could keep that rabbit down for long. He was a true Stoic.
When I mentioned I was writing this piece to my husband, he scoffed at my claim that Titan lived for nine years. Your parents probably just kept replacing him, he said. But there was no replacing Titan. Prince With a Thousand Enemies.
