#1a SHELF PHILOSOPHER - AristophBunnies Speaks Philosophically

Thursday, August 6, 2026

“I have lingered this morning,” AristophBunnies said. “Smoke is slipping to the sky from a series of distant fires, but our house is wonderfully quiet. My view of the forested wetland invites peace.”

“Mom! What’s with ‘our’ house?” Scooter glared at the stuffed rabbit standing on my desk. “He stole that line about lingering from your “L” book! Your first chapter starts with you lingering, and the house being quiet!”

Stuffed rabbit turned to address resident dog. “You are right, it was raining when she wrote that chapter. I was there. You weren’t. You should know what rain does to those of a philosophical bent. At least, if you know your mom, you should know.”

“What’s he doing off the shelf?” Scooter asked.

“You remember him, don’t you? This is AristophBunnies, philosopher rabbit,” I said.

“Philosopher? Stupid rabbit.” Scooter Sublime was less than impressed.

Scooter Sublime, resident dog, and AristophBunnies, philosopher rabbit

“Aristophanes was a playwright; an ancient one,” Scooter said. “He wrote dirty plays, Mom. You won’t even read them to me!” Scooter shot a glance and a new line toward the philosopher, “You’re stuffed shelf stuff with nothing to say, nearly as I know.”

“Not Aristophanes,” said relaxed rabbit without moving a limb or twitching a tail. “AristophBunnies, resident philosopher, choosing silence, as philosophers are wont to do.” He stood silent for a beat longer than Scooter liked before saying, “Philosophers think before speaking, unlike unreflective pragmatists.”

Scooter jumped to my lap, making himself eye level with the floral-skinned rabbit. “Un-what?” he whispered to me, hoping rabbit would not detect ignorance. Rabbits rank high on Scooter’s list of interests, just beneath garter snakes, and he meant to remain superior.

“You’re right about Aristophanes, Scooter,” I said, adding a pat to his back, hoping to tease out some tension. “A very, very long time ago, the Greek playwright wrote vulgar comedies; mostly about sex, fertility, political scandals, and a chorus of frogs. I doubt his mother was proud.

But about our AristophBunnies. Long before you were even a puppy, I was ready to put this very stuffed rabbit in an Easter basket when he lifted his chin, raised his right front paw, and said, ‘Don’t.’”

“You should have paid no attention,” said Scooter.

“He introduced himself as a philosopher. He said, ‘What’s with offering young children a fertility symbol, Me, a rabbit, parked in a basket filled fake grass, foil-covered chocolate eggs, badly painted real eggs, trinkets, and marshmallowy nonsense. Certain confusion is what it is, all introduced on a spring Sunday: fake chicks, junk candy, new clothes, tales of an Easter Bunny, and of a man’s body bursting from a grave. All this confusion gets conveyed by the time a family sits at table, and a ham is being carved.’ He finished by saying, ‘It’s likely that some similarly mixed messages from his parents messed up Aristophanes. I surely don’t belong in a basket. I do have things to say to you.’ But, his only word then was, ‘Don’t.’

“Got it, Scooter? This floral-skinned bunny has stayed with us for about fifty years without speaking, until this morning.”

“When he plagiarized your book,” said Scooter.

AristophBunnies settled on his haunches and quite seriously said, “From my shelf I can see the world through the reading room windows; I can hear the TV, and in-house conversations. I can tell you, you humans are pretty much making a mess of things. I’m ready to talk now, starting with Mom’s thoughts from the book’s chapter about lingering.”

“Mom! He did it again! Don’t let him call you mom.”

  Part II, coming soon: “AristophBunnies Speaks Philosophically”