Baker and The Bun

Chet Baker is as sweet as ever. I look for the silver lining in his going deaf, and I've come up with two. The first is minor. You can sneak a snack wrapped in cellophane without bringing him out of a dead sleep to dog you for a bite. Big deal, I know. I'm trying to look on the bright side here.

The second is good. He's no longer reduced to a quivering, tail-tucked shadow when it thunders. In fact, he'll sit out in the front yard enjoying the cool breeze as a thunderstorm approaches.  He hasn't gone downstairs and burrowed under the kivers in a long time. And that's pretty sweet, to see him unafraid. I guess he's never connected big dark clouds with thunderstorms.

Have a snorgle of soft otter-throat, with essence of fresh linen and ferret. Mmm. Made for indulgence.

Once a major threat to the cottontails that are attempting to cover the earth this year, Baker is now a kind of plaything to them. They enjoy playing Chicken, allowing insanely close approach by their one-time nemesis. 

There are three baby bunnies we see regularly in the yard this summer, and I can't tell them apart, so I call them all Bun. I greet them cheerily, talk to them as I garden, and they have responded by being completely unafraid of me and my little black and white minion.

This was my first encounter with Garage Bun. I was about a yard away as (s)he nibbled Clo-Clo Puffs and met my gaze as her little jaws clomped away. Charmed, I'm sure.

Same Bun,  to judge by the tiny star on its forehead, probably a week later. They're growing like weeds.  

Bun hops up the sidewalk. Awww.

That Bacon just doesn't suspect there's a Bun there.

I'm laughing and pointing, and trying to get Bacon and Bun in the same frame, trying to tell him there's a good chase opportunity being missed, to no avail. The yellow arrow is pointing right at Bun. And Bacon is thinking his own thoughts, probably something like, "Dunner time is 1 hour 13 minutes and 22 seconds away."

Until The Bacon spies The Bun. Ears come forward on both parties. Muscles tense.  I can feel them both anticipating the chase, the moment both have been waiting for. Note the upturned white tail on Bun. She's ready for fun. I hear the low, piglike snort Bacon makes when he's got a chasee in his sights, right before he unleashes Black Lightning. Game on!

For your amusement, Baker and The Bun, in another redonkulous iPhone ZickFlick. Same soundtrack as all of them: Me cackling.

Bacon likes to trot back and take a good snuff at the spot where he last saw Bun sitting. It's as close as he's going to come to having her in his jaws, I expect. That little Cylindrical Pig can still move it on out, but he's no match for the springy elasticity and lightning reflexes of Bun.

I just got back from a week in Arizona last evening, and I swear, Bun ran out of the Rudbeckia as I drove up; (s)he came out to greet me. She seemed genuinely happy to see me, to hear my ridiculous patter as I walked right up to and past her. I've always respected Bun's space, and I try not to push her to run or change what she's doing. She's happy to be Baker's mechanical rabbit, his reason for patrolling the garden beds. And I'm happy to have her. Good rabbit fencing around the vegetable garden makes good neighbors.