I get to the office early. I’m anxious to get started on the report assigned to me late yesterday by ~ Rawclyde! He’s already here ~ sitting on top of his desk munching select shrub-leaf from a bowl. Our editor is a jackrabbit, you know. Without one word of greeting he peers suspiciously at me as I slouch into the Old Timer Chronicle newspaper office. He hops over his bowl of rabbit ration, turns around, continues chewing. Just like a jackrabbit.
After I get settled at my desk, one of the editor’s ears, a very long & alert antenna, points obnoxiously at the coffee pot, cold & empty, in the corner. His staring at me becomes ferocious.
“Okay, Rawclyde!” I grin because he’s so damn funny looking ~ one of several reasons why I took this job. I get up and tend to the pot.
Rawclyde wasn’t always a rabbit. He had, or he thought he had, a girl-friend once ~ who kept telling him that she hated people, but loved animals. So he became a jackrabbit, which didn’t do him any good. She still told him he had to leave. Then she stopped e-mailing him.
I empty yesterday’s coffee grains, buff the pot…