existential moment

What is it to be Ambrose? Of what finer stuff is one made in the Ambrosian sphere compared to, say, Fido or Pepper or Teegan? And, in this deathless and glittering realm, why must I never have a real bunny, but always suffer through this monotonous parade of fleecy substitutes that so quickly lose their internal squeakers? These are the questions that haunt me.