Rabbits and Cappuccino

This is Shane. This morning, he tore out of the house at 5:30 thinking he was going to catch that rabbit who lives under the shed. As usual, no luck. That rabbit has more escape routes than a Colombian cartel. Now you see me; now you don't. The only difference is, the rabbit just wants a decent meal; drug dealers want a decent meal with a little death and destruction for dessert. They're a little kinky that way. Anyway, Shane misses the rabbit every morning, and then he feels obliged to keep running, you know, as though that's all he wanted to do anyway. He tuckers out within five minutes and then he asks me to bark so we can go in for breakfast.

He always hangs out in the kitchen when Joan prepares our meal; that way he gets to snatch up the pieces of kibble she drops on the floor—I think on purpose. After breakfast, we each get the foamy milk that's left over from Joan's morning cappuccino. If I slurp it down very quickly, I have time to park myself in front of Joan and put on my droopy-eyed hungry face as she's drinking her cappuccino. She falls for it every time, and I get a few fingers of foam. Oh, wow, that's good. Kyla came to visit the other day and left her Starbucks coffee out for me. I swear it was pure heaven. Not as good as Joan's cappuccino, and certainly not as fresh; but, I can understand why rich humans might want to spend their money on it.

A presto, Juno