White Paw

My Guy

I like to think that White Paw is mine, as has been my wont with a few other lovable creatures that have crossed my path.

Nothing you could do could make me untrue to my guy,

Nothing you could buy could make me tell a lie to my guy.

The sun is rising sooner than I want to see it, but there it is, creeping through the blinds of the room. I rush down the patio stairs to unlock and prop up the door of the fenced area underneath. Like a Dark Prince, White Paw emerges.

He's My Guy.

Pawie, as he is fondly called, is a bunny. He has dense, plush and very soft black fur and long pointy ears. Because of his coloration, he can easily disappear in the shadows, but his single white paw never fails to disclose his hideaway corner of the moment. He is the size of a large cat.

At first he peeks out, narrowing his eyes at the bright sunlight, then forges ahead to take in the freshness of the breeze in the eight-by-four open-air enclosure adjacent to his enclosed domicile. Its chicken-wire gate opens up to the back garden. I can swear he purrs very softly, a sound that I always want to listen for because it assures me he's happy and content.

For the most part, I'd say that Pawie has a sweet personality, but there are times when he looks cross particularly when I josh him meekly with a tilt of the head, Getting overweight, aren't we? I find his surly look quite funny.

Out in the open, he roams freely among the just-sprouting pansies, alternating sprints with a happy dance. At times, I can see nothing but a shimmering blur as he runs wildly after scampering leaf beetles. He leaps occasionally, but almost always never flops over on his side, maybe because he's overweight. Shh, I should not have said that out loud.

Then he scoots over to an area where new growth has stubbornly begun to shove its way up through old thatch. He makes a quiet clucking sound as he nibbles on grass wheat and stray dandelion weeds.

A black ball of fur with one white foreleg in view, he later plunks under the cassia shrub as if in enjoyment of the nubs of yellow pods on its branches, rustling about. For a moment, we sit on the ground in silence, taking in the infinite variety of green of the cape honeysuckle hedge. He seems attentive to noises around - the flicker of skinny brown lizards darting across the path, the buzzing drone of cicadas.

Pawie! I startle him, as I spot a thick line of ants marching up and down the overhanging branch of the neighbor's navel orange tree. He scrutinizes me with his characteristic sullen look, turns a floppy ear, then flares his nostrils and twitches his tiny mouth into what looks like a snorty, Wasup?

The ants are stealing the fruit, one ant-bite at a time, I sigh in mock protest.
Not my problem, he seems to indicate with his slowly wiggling nose, as he stretches and yawns. 

What else can I say? I give him a teasing pout, trying to hide a smile. Nothing can make me untrue to this guy.

Kip-kip-kip!