This morning I had coffee with a gypsy who read my future in the coffee grounds that clung to the side of my cup. "The South will rise again," she told me.

Celebrating our first full year of drinking coffee in peace and fucking quiet! (Well, three days ago, anyway).

No talking in the coffee zone!

Coffee Dog looked nervously at the sky, shivering and belching brown foam. His hind quarters were caught in the spin of a perpetual saint vitus dance, and his toenails clicked rhythmically against the wet stone patio.

He turned his attention back to his 20oz bowl of cold coffee.

Coffee Dog had been drinking coffee instead of water for several days now. He spent most of his day urinating on himself with his head in the bowl. The rest of his time he spent screeching as he bolted across the muddy yard, occasionally trying to run up a tree to catch a squirrel or bird.

But squirrels and birds knew better than to come into Coffee Dog's back yard any more. His gummy red eyes darted from treetop to treetop. He barked his vocal cords raw at passing airplanes and clouds.

One day the man might stop coming into the back yard to refill coffee dog's bowl with the lifegiving black liquid.

On that day, Coffee Dog would die.