Tilly wasn’t our first choice: my wife and I had fallen for a grey lop-eared charmer in a local shop who was unexpectedly pulled from sale. But we were now determined to acquire a rabbit, so we traipsed from store to store around south-west London, until we saw this tiny ball of brown and white fluff. Suddenly we could imagine no other bunny.

Tilly was many things. When our landlord was around, she was at a friend’s. To the kale producers of Britain, she was a lifeline. To us, she was affectionate, but with a strong sense of personal space – you could tell when she wanted to be touched and when she did not.

She was also a menace, gnawing on everything from books to cables and sofa legs. To my family, she was “Bad Tilly” after a weekend stay that left my father’s sofa, skirting board and, somehow, floorboards chewed up.

But for eight years – through a pandemic and other personal losses – she was always there, scooting about and poking her nose out from under the sofa to say hi. When we found out my wife was pregnant in July 2021, our relief quickly turned to concern: how would we manage Tilly and a tiny baby?

Then, one evening in October 2021, we noticed a hitch in her hop. In a matter of days, that limp turned into being unable to move. We booked a visit to the vet to investigate but we knew it was the end.

The night before she was to be put down, we left her swaddled in a blanket in her favourite hiding spot under the coffee table. When I checked on her early the next morning, she had already gone. As with everything, Tilly’s death was on her terms.

We parents often scoff at the suggestion that caring for a pet is remotely similar to raising a child. However, I contend that Tilly taught me much about parenthood. How to nurture something that would be helpless without you. How to reason with a tiny creature that cannot understand you. How to handle the ludicrous amount of gear it takes to care for something so small (in her case a cage, water bowl, hay, seeds to scatter in the hay, treats, other treats in case she didn’t want those ones, her litter box, and so much more). My wife swears she was, if anything, more work than either of our babies.

Nearly five years on, her ashes, bowl and favourite toy are tucked safely away on a cluttered shelf in our new home. Every time I grab something from it, I’m taken back to our old flat where I was comforted by her constant presence. And I’m reminded of the complex creature she was, and the parents she allowed us to become.