When I was a mortal dog, I was never one for toys. Sometimes, especially in my younger days, I would play with a stuffy. I'd pick it up, shake it, emit a tiny growl, then jump on the chair exhausted. In my later years, even this wee bit of exertion was too much for me. I preferred to sit on my perch and watch my sister Pocket chase her silly ball. There was one stuffy I was partial to. It was a pink and white rabbit that for some reason lost to the ages was called the ho-bunny. Even in my later years, I would give the ho-bunny a few seconds of play. Mostly, I liked to hide ho-bunny under me. I found his cheerful personality comforting. He was a good, napping companion. When I went to the Bridge, I was allowed to take ho-bunny with me. I slept with it every night. It was a reminder of home. In the morning, I made the bed, arranged the pillows, and placed ho-bunny in a prominent place on the comforter. One day last week I went to my room and saw that ho-bunny was no