Stories of a short, fat bastard.

Max has given up following me around the yard and dashing backwards and forwards past the back door, and is back to tunneling. as I left for work this morning I saw him in the front yard of the house across the cul-de-sac. The silly bugger will become dog food, or worse: claimed as a pet by the kids over there.

If he unescapes himself into the yard, it looks like tomorrow morning will be spent excavating and laying a rabbit-proof sill under the gate.

If that doesn't keep him in I'll have to do a printed flyer to put in letterboxes. "Hi My name is Max. I live at No 14 but they can't keep me in..."