Paul Winchell, RIP

Rabbit stared out the window at his carrot patch. They were coming in nicely this year. The best crop since, well, since he cared to remember.

Sighing, he stepped out the back door to go take a look. A cold breeze blew in from the east. He looked up and saw a span of clouds grey as Eeyore's tail. The Hundred Acre Wood was in for a blustery storm tonight. He sighed again.At the carrot patch, he inspected the leaves. Nice and green, a sign of health. His felt his mouth watering, then stopped. No, not today. It wouldn't be right.

He stared across the span of the carrot patch, to the road beyond. The dirt lay still. No clouds raised themselves, no ominous boinging rang up the lane. No boisterous shout of "hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!" reached his ears.

Rabbit raised a foot half-heartedly off the ground, held it above a carrot leaf, but put it down. "It's not the same," he said.

Giving one last look to the dismal sky, he turned and plodded back inside his house. There, he poured himself a glass of carrot juice, the last of last year's vintage. It tasted foul and mashed, and damned good.

"The most horrible thing about him," Rabbit said as his tears fell into the glass, "is that he was the only one."