My Dog, Fudd

It's become all about the rabbits. It's not about the faraway blue of the sky or these cloudy days with their strange November warmth, nor is it about the walk itself, over the crunching grass, which, where the junior footballers have played, has worn away into nearly smooth dirt. It's not about the rich brown earthy scent that's carried on the breeze, not unless, of course, that scent contains the sweet, cottony smell of rabbit. It's not about sticking to a course and following a path, reaching a destination or even enjoying the journey. It's not about meeting others on the way, making eye contact and saying hello. It's not encountering other dogs and sniffing them, unless that other dog has recently sat upon a rabbit. It's not about walking around the apartments at night, passing through those sweet, Downey-scented clouds or the sometimes breathtaking view of the stars and constellations, unless that constellation is Lepus, the rabbit, located near Orion, which the great hunter and his dogs chase across unending night. Then there might be some interest. Even at night, curled up across the bed–sometimes in a tight little ball, but more often than not spread out shamelessly, as if the bed was his own–his dreams are rabbit dreams, and he can't help but twitch and kick his legs at my ribs and kidneys. At least he's dreaming–and dreaming of something he loves, which is more than most people can say.

"People's dreams are made out of what they do all day. The same way a dog that runs after rabbits will dream of rabbits. It's what you do that makes your soul, not the other way around." - Barbara Kingsolver