Tuesday, Dec. 14, 2004 - 1:36 p.m.
Editor's note (added 08-09-05): This was the fifth in a six-entry series during which The Measure was taken over by a rabbit.
I believe my neighbor is drowning dogs on the other side of the fence. I hear intermittent yelping combined with violent splashing. And though I would not support such drastic measures, something certainly ought to be done about those dogs. The odor of feces on the late autumn breeze makes one yearn for more confined environs. Unfortunately, my condition -- that is, the herbivorous temperament -- requires me to travel about the yard foraging for sustenance.
Now we must clear up that persistent question, "Where have you gone to, Gerard?" "Were you not satisfied with the electronic realm?" "Were we insufficiently solicitous? Not welcoming enough? Ought we to have sung your praises more often in the guestbook?" I assure you, no, the fault is almost entirely mine. My hesitance to declare myself completely culpable arises only from the interaction of several factors which I will discuss below.
First, I must establish the mise en scene, which will require my readers to cast their minds over the stereotypes they have built up over their lifetimes and ask themselves "In the company of whom are bunnies usually found?" The first reply that springs to mind is, of course, "other bunnies." Though this is no doubt the case, I ask you to limit the accusative pronoun specifically to members of your own species (I trust my readers are at least predominantly anthropoid)...and I believe you will find in short order the answer you seek: prestidigitators.
Yes, those top-hatted gentlemen are known not only for fraternizing with my kind, but for making use of us in their performances. Most acquire us through licit means -- there are, I believe, shops for this kind of thing -- but unfortunately there also exists a black market.
Where can this be leading? Was I, Gerard, kidnapped by marauding middlemen and pressed into involuntary servitude at the hands of a magician? Was I forced to spend an entire fortnight inside a malodorous head covering?
Indeed I was. And I have not yet touched on the worst of it. My readers must know by now, as I have considerately provided several self-portraits for your perusal, that my fur is a delicate gray shade. Gray fur, however, is not seen as sufficiently archetypal when it comes to bunnies; our wand-wielding masters require a pristine white stage prop. Thus, for the duration of my imprisonment, I was powdered. Twice a day, large quantities of cornstarch were patted over my body. It made me sneeze.
It ought to be obvious by now that I managed to escape the harrowingly pedestrian life of a magician's rabbit. Would that I had some glorious story of how I broke my bonds and hopped to freedom; instead, sadly, I was released voluntarily. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say my employer had not read the Tractatus as carefully as he imagined. I set the price of our wager as my freedom, and my readers can rejoice in the result. I thank you all for reading.
With solemn joy,