Finn McCool, the Irish writer, was out drinking to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, when he decided, at the first ribbon of morning light, to return home. He stumbled into the kitchen to find his dog sitting at his chair, eating his morning meal. He cursed the dog and tried shoving him off the chair, to which the dog muttered something, bit him on the arm, and left.
The next day, his arm was so swollen and painful, he couldn’t write, so the Irish writer decided to go drinking again to deaden the pain. The next morning, he stumbled home, his arm throbbing and found a hare sitting at his place eating his breakfast.
“Who are you,” the writer bellowed, weaving his way toward the table. “Who the hell are you?”
The hare ignored him.
The writer drew closer. I said, “Who the hell are you?!”
This time the hare looked at him, dabbed a napkin at his split upper lip and said, “If you must know, I am the hare of the hound that bit you.”
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