Mr. Rabbit died today, at the ripe old age of two. Which, if you stop and think about it, is pretty darn old for a small rubber rabbit you get in an Easter basket. He died under mysterious circumstances, and his head was found in a children's book.
Mr. Rabbit's longsuffering characterized his existence. For more than two years, he was regularly stretched beyond all reasonable measure, often to four times his original length. 
He was eaten by crocodiles, banged on furniture, tied in knots, thrown to and from great heights, stuffed in pockets... and in all these things, he never let go of that carrot. He was, both literally and figuratively, loved to death. In this terrible time, let us remember Mr. Rabbit, for he persevered, despite all odds.
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