I’m a Rabbit, and I Want a Voice. Preferably Bugs Bunny’s.
Is that so much to ask?
When kids sing “Old McDonald’s Farm” and make sounds like all the different animals, it’s lots of fun. Moo-moos and oink-oinks and woof-woofs all over the place, a chorus of joyful noise. But when a child suggests “On his farm he had a rabbit! With a….” the room falls silent. Every damn time. Because what does a rabbit sound like? Even field recorders have been unable to pick up much in the way of vocalizing from us (full disclosure: yes, I am a rabbit.) I have spent my life speechless, and enraged that I have been deprived of a voice — in society, and even in my cute furry body.
I am ridiculously un-demanding as creatures go. Give me a little clover to nibble — hell, give me your weedy, un-mowed grass! — and I am content to cavort all over your stupid yard, fluffy tail high, turning your crappy “garden” into a scenic paradise. Now I realize songbirds serve the same picturesque purpose, but a great deal of their charm comes from their tweeting and chirping. I have no such assistance; all I can do is cock my head quizzically in your direction, and maybe wiggle my ears or my pert little nose.
But think of the improvement, if I only could speak!! I daydream about various possible sounds that I might emit. Neigh? Nay! Quack? Are you ducking kidding me? Baa? Humbug! I always come back to one voice. One unmistakable New York wise-guy tone, proclaiming to the world that Bugs Bunny is in The House. That, my friends, is what I want to sound like, what (if they were honest) EVERY rabbit wants to sound like.
And I’m not even asking for the fabulous Looney Tunes lifestyle, the endless opportunities to humiliate that moron Fudd, to perform in operas, to lounge around chomping carrots like cigars, legs insouciantly crossed. Of course, I wouldn’t say no to any of that, but I don’t expect it. I would be happy to live my simple rabbitty life, hopping around aimlessly, if I could just TALK once in a while, particularly if I could crack wise like The Master: “Ehhh, What’s up, Doc?” or, if that phrase is protected by copyright, I’d gladly amend it to “Ehhh, what’s shakin’, Constable? Or, “Ehhh, what gives, Associate Professor?”
Bottom line, I’m far more interested in making some noise (and preferably with a snarky Brooklyn accent) than I am in the actual content of that noise. I espouse no world-shattering agenda, belong to no political party. I merely want the chance to converse, even occasionally. You see, I’m an extrovert with a delightful personality, but you’d never know it to hear me. Because there’s nothing to freaking HEAR!
I’m sorry, I get a little agitated when discussing my eternal, infernal silence. Because I CAN’T discuss it! Out loud, at least. Think about it: what if YOU suddenly went all Ariel after Ursula cursed her? You wouldn’t be able to utter a peep when Joe in accounting presented your big idea as his own at the annual meeting. You’d have no snappy retort when your miserable kid called you a big loser. Forget about debate club, or barbershop quartet, or running for Congress! Yeah, yeah, you’d be known as a “good listener” but take it from me, that’s cold comfort.
I can handle a future with oddly shaped legs, rheumy eyes, and teeth that don’t stop growing. What I can’t handle is living the rest of my life without adding to the general discourse.
So every night, when I snuggle in my burrow before sleep, I pray for this one gift. For Christmas, maybe. Or my birthday. Just one lousy miracle: “Give me a voice, Lord. Remember, I’d prefer Bugs Bunny’s. But I would settle for Thumper’s. Or Roger’s. Just not Rabbit’s from Winnie-the-Pooh. He sounds like a doddering old fool. Amen.”
I am Bunny. Hear me roar.
Maybe, someday.
