Mr. Whiskers and the First Lesson in Animal Advocacy
I think my advocacy for animals started in the womb. From a very young age I was always bringing home strays, rescuing cats and dogs, or stopping by the pet store for a guinea pig, bird, or rabbit—only to return them the next day at my mother’s insistence. But my first real lesson in animal advocacy came at Mr. Whiskers’ funeral.
Mr. Whiskers was a gray lop-eared rabbit I had proudly litter-box trained. To me, he was pure joy—the way he would zoom around the house, pause to pant in the middle of the room, then dart off again, bouncing off the back of the couch or chair. He was a little comet of fur and mischief, enjoying his predator-free, carefree life.
I don’t remember exactly how Mr. Whiskers died. I’d like to believe it was of old age, but as a child with many pets, I can’t say with confidence that they all got the care they needed. What I do remember clearly is how deeply his death struck my eight-year-old heart. It was unlike any loss I had felt before. I insisted on a proper funeral.
In our small backyard, my two sisters—only a year and two years older than me—stood beside my single mother as we dug a shallow grave. We laid Mr. Whiskers gently inside. My mother said a few kind words. It was a solemn moment… until I heard it: the snickering. My sisters were trying to hold in their laughter, muffling it behind shaky breaths and half-hidden giggles.
Were they laughing? Yes, they were. And it stung. I tried to ignore them as best I could, focusing on giving Mr. Whiskers the dignity he deserved. I remember I wore my favorite shirt that day—the one with a cartoon cat and a veterinarian’s stethoscope drawn on it. My mom shushed my sisters as I cried for my beloved rabbit’s departure.
It took me a long time to realize what that moment was really about and what it was preparing me for. That backyard funeral was a small glimpse into the life that awaited me as an animal advocate—a life where compassion for animals often requires confronting human indifference first.
Because that’s the truth about loving animals in a world that often doesn’t: you will feel alone in that love. You will face people who laugh, who roll their eyes, who tell you, “It’s just a rabbit,” or “It’s just a dog.” They’ll question why you care so much, as though empathy were something to be embarrassed by. And you’ll have to decide, over and over again, whether to harden your heart or keep it open.
I have chosen, every time, to keep it open.
What I learned at eight years old—standing over that tiny grave with tears streaming down my face—wasn’t just about grief or love. It was about courage. The courage to feel deeply in a world that teaches you to look away. The courage to defend the voiceless when it’s easier to stay silent. The courage to honor life, even when others think it doesn’t matter.
That day, I thought I was burying my rabbit. But I was really planting something—something that would grow inside me for the rest of my life. A seed of conviction. A calling. A quiet promise that every creature deserves to be seen, respected, and mourned when they are gone.
Mr. Whiskers taught me my first lesson in advocacy: that tenderness is strength. That grief is a teacher. And that love, when extended beyond the borders of our own species, is the purest form of humanity we have.
Even now, decades later, when I’m fighting for animals—writing letters, rescuing, organizing, standing in front of people who still don’t quite understand—I think of that small backyard, that tiny grave, and that child who refused to let anyone laugh away her love.
And I thank him for starting something that never ended.
Thank you Mr. Whiskers, for your teaching me my first lesson in animal advocacy.
With wild grace,
Annika
