We read all the right books. We took all the right classes. We had all the right conversations. We did everything we could to prepare our toddler for the introduction of his new baby sister. And it worked. He's been wonderful with her. It's our "firstborn" that's been the problem — our 18-pound rabbit, Pig.

What kind of society do we live in if there are no big-brother bunny books — stories to be read to rabbits, preparing them for the new addition to the family? How are there no songs, no nursery rhymes, no bedtime stories? No soothing tales to help them digest the news while they sip on carrot juice before hitting the timothy hay?

Our toddler has been a saint. The books informed him that big brothers get to become big helpers. He understood that the baby wouldn't replace him in our hearts. So now, armored with this knowledge, he runs into our bedroom every morning, kisses his baby sister's head and says, "Hi, sweet little baby girl." It's perfection.

OK, it's not totally perfection. Because we have nurtured this warm greeting so much, the toddler has taken to giving it to other people, as well. It was sweet when he would say it to me. It was hilarious when he started saying it to his teachers. But it was downright awkward when he went up to a muscular bro walking his dog and said, "Hi, sweet little baby girl."

The bro was confused. He looked over his shoulder to see whether my son was talking to someone else. My toddler just stared up at him, devilish grin on his face. The bro scratched his head and then smiled and said, "Um, uh, hi."

It hasn't been so easy with the rabbit. Pig acts out with his jealousy and feelings of neglect. Sure, we expected the typical ways of misbehaving — smoking, drinking, sneaking out at night to hang with the other bad bunnies — but we were not prepared for his incessant chewing on the carpet and curtains. Running away. Hiding. Knocking over his food bowl. We remind him daily to make good choices, but every evening results with our sending him to his room.

I, too, am an eldest child. I should have considered Pig's feelings more. I remember everything about my brother's birth. I remember being taken to a neighbor's house in the middle of the night so my parents could go to the hospital. I remember how, a few days later, my mom and baby brother came home — and how I screamed and stormed up the stairs when I learned they had not named him Teddybear as I had requested. I also remember how, a few weeks later, sitting on the top of the stairs, I yelled to my mom that she did not love me anymore. I packed my backpack and ran away. Of course, my life on the road was limited as a 5-year-old. Sure, I had packed the essentials: a few lollipops and a My Little Pony. I could have survived for years on my own. I imagined a future in which I would be raised by wolves like Mowgli in "The Jungle Book." But there were rules that had to be followed — for example, no crossing the street without a parent.

What's an angry elder sibling to do? I was feeling rebellious. I, like Pig, wanted to act out in a way that let my parents know I would not be ignored or cast aside. I needed them to notice me. So I took a deep breath and did what I had to do. I crossed the bike path.

Oh, did you think I was going to say I crossed the street? I was angry, not crazy!

I camped out at a friend's house — coincidently the same friend's house I'd stayed at the night my brother was born. A couple of hours later, my mom called me home for dinner. She had known where I was the whole time. She had seen me leave, seen me cross the bike path.

I guess that's what I need to communicate to Pig. Let him know that I see him. Perhaps that's what all elder siblings need to hear. Even lagomorphs.

You know becoming a parent will be tough, but no one ever tells you raising a rabbit will be this hard.

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