Scooby Doo does not automatically (for me at least) conjure up some deeper philosophical layering that needs to be ruminated upon while smoking a cigar and sipping cognac in the bath*.
*actually I wouldn’t recommend this, having once gotten having gotten very inebriated imbibing more than the recommended daily allowance of Hennessy and smoking an entire Romeo Y Julieta No.3 while soaking my plus-sized carcass in the ol’ claw-tub. (I used to channel Denny Crane as my spirit animal) In any event, ones ability to extricate oneself from said bathtub post event is harder than one might imagine.
I always thought the message entrenched in this particular Saturday morning Hanna-Barbera was that doing lots of drugs would turn you into some form of Shaggy Rogers. And that was… you know… a bad thing. Much better to wear a neckerchief and drive the paedo-van. Fred… eh… was supposed to be the role-model right?
Also, I’d like to point out (at this critical juncture) that a great Dane is actually a German breed. Those Danes… always taking @#$& that doesn’t belong to them. (actually the Danes may just been bystanders in this particularly etymology… but they rarely get blamed for anything… eh… since, those early day amphibious shenanigans I mean… so I feel we need to get our kicks in anywhere we can)
In any event. Scooby Doo. Greatest canine meta-physicists of our time. Who knew?