We gratefully acknowledge the original 'Disapproving Rabbits' website, that inspired this site, and its creators, Sharon, Bill, Cinnamon, and Dougal. Without you, we would not be here. We Approve Of You!
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Penny leaned over me and wiped my visor one more time. In the seat to my right sat Pancake, all strapped in and waiting for Ava to finish her pressure checks. In front of me sat Chomp, a middle-aged pug, barely fitting into his suit, and his breathing sounded belabored on the intercom. Next to Chomp sat a young badger, Hack, the chief of the software division at StratoRivet. Abby was still on the flight deck, pacing and thumping from time to time. She didn't like what was about to happen any more than me.
By going on this flight, Chomp was calling our bluff and was trying to show the world that we were full of pellets, that our pilots and trainers were making stuff up. In their eyes, it was going to be their way or the highway and our feedback and ideas were good for stuffing where the thermometers go.
Hack was quiet. This flight was his idea. He was our only ally in their engineering office and, right now, he was sweating bullets too. I was gripping my restraints with such angst that my paws were starting to cramp.
I punched in a visual call to Molly onboard the salvage ship, the Buzzard, on orbit above us. She was all smiles and waved at me. I think she was noming some mint. It had crossed my mind that this could be the last time I'd see her. I forced a smile. She shook her head in disapproval. "You can smile better than that, Major!"
Once everybun cleared the flight deck and the vehicle got sealed, Flight Control resumed the launch countdown.
"About damn time!" rasped Chomp, and he returned to his attempts at breathing. I wondered how he ever got cleared for this flight. Well, he's Chomp; he doesn't "have to" anything; doctors and clearances are for us, and never mind that Chomp can't fly a kite.
I felt the rumble of the main engines kicking in, and I glanced at Pancake. She was all business, her eyes on the instrumentation, her paw steady on the auxiliary abort handle. The display on my visor went into a launch frenzy and got my attention back. I was most concerned with the pressure readings around the new iris hatch, ironically located right above Chomp. It was that hatch that had led us to this flight. Chomp and his "yes-critters" insisted that we were installing the seal on the hatch incorrectly, that we were incompetent in operating it, and that our simulations were simply rubbish. Thus, StratoRivet installed the hatch on this vehicle.
No, they didn't have any data to back up their assertions. They had Chomp's raging, his foaming spittle, and that made every fart coming out of his mouth gospel. Only Hack realized there could be something to our claims, and he knew that an operational disaster would mean the end of their company and their careers, not to mention the most certain loss of innocent lives.
"Launch Tower cleared," called out Sammy, our cop-com. There was no launch tower. There hasn't been one for, well, almost ever, but we called it out anyway. It's one of those superstitious, old routines that we kept alive for good luck. Nowadays, it means that the main engines are stable, and the initial liftoff is nominal. I felt heavier and heavier; my face muscles were trying to break away from the bone and slide off to the back of my helmet. The G's during acceleration while escaping the gravity of Mother Earth tried to crush me with a ton of force. My paw closed tight around one of my seat restraints.
We continued to accelerate and climb to a much higher orbit that's normally required for a routine test flight. Pancake and I decided that we wanted to be as close to the Buzzard as possible. We didn't bother explaining any of that to Chomp. Finally, the engines throttled back, I felt the pressure ease, and an uneasy silence filled the cabin. I gave it a moment and glanced at Pancake. She was just as puzzled as I was. The Iris hatch held. My stomach sank. Today was the first day that the bloody thing decided to work as designed! My mouf felt as dry as sawdust. In front of me, Chomp started to get out of his seat. He managed to undo his seat restraints and was trying to stand up in the seat. He turned himself around and faced us, holding onto his headrest. He did not have a happy grin on his mug. My legs started to shake. I expected Chomp to start his psychotic tirade any second now. "You know, Major, we never tried a simulated re-entry with this hatch, because it always blew off by now," said Pancake in a low voice.
The lunatic, Chomp, blasted off with his yapper like an old Soyuz rocket. Spittle started beading up on the insides of his visor; the drops combining into globs refracted the annunciator lights like raindrops off the windshield of a car at night. Pancake looked at me again and started searching for a tranquilizer charge in a pocket of her suit. She was about to come out of her seat.
The loud bang of an explosive decompression jolted my nerve endings and shot up my spine, followed by the noise of air getting sucked out of the cabin. Tremendous force lifted Chomp, and his head hit the rim of the opening where the hatch used to be. His face flashed with raw fear and he went limp. The umbilical connecting Chomp's suit to the life support system stretched, its innards snapped, and only the outside sheath held together and prevented Chomp from floating out into space.
Flight control went abuzz with activity; alarms were piercing ear drums and stinging retinas; Chomp was gently bouncing around the rim of the hatch, out cold and at peace at last. I felt numb and frozen in my seat, while Pancake, free of seatbelts, was by the hatch retrieving Chomp. She looked at his vitals display and gave the thumbs-up. He was getting colder but didn't give up the ghost quite yet.
"Help me get him into the airlock!" said Pancake. The command snapped me out of my stupor, and I made a dash toward the back of the flight deck. I opened the lock and primed it for pressurization while Pancake dragged Chomp inside and connected his auxiliary valve to the life support system. "Get up there and rendezvous with the Buzzard!" directed Pancake. We closed the lock and pressurized it. I was still shaking, but I worked my way to the left front seat and plugged myself into the life support.
In the next few minutes, I forgot about everything around me. Routine training kicked in, and I worked the rendezvous procedure to dock with the Buzzard. Since Hack was somewhat familiar with the systems we were using, I handed him the checklist and put him to work. I made him follow me with the checklist and call out flight parameters. It gave him something to do, and I think he remembered how to breathe again. When I looked up, I saw stars, courtesy of the missing hatch. We were flying a space convertible.
Molly was ready for us, and Chomp got the medical care he needed. Zero gravity worked in his favor. We were able to examine the extent of his injuries without causing any further damage. The back of his helmet had a nasty gash and was almost cracked open. He was bruised, had a dislocated disk, and his left hind leg was almost broken, but he would be OK.
When Chomp came out of the coma, he learned that he would need an exceptional physical therapist -- and a lawyer. The board of directors had demanded criminal charges against him. StratoRivet learned to live with the fact that their existence hinged as much on cooperation with us, the flying grunts, as anything else.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Monday, October 24, 2016
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Dear Bun, I miss you so much. Yesterday we brought your remains home, but it feels like you stopped eating just yesterday, and we only have hours left together. I still can't believe you're gone. I still keep looking at your old spot and want to serve you water and treats and get you settled in for the night. I miss the sound of you slurping water and the gurgles it made in your belleh. I still keep getting the sink ready in case you need a bum baf. I keep waking up at night to check on you in case you flipped over or went on one of your EBA's. I keep hearing the noises your bum leg made when it hit your bundo.
I try to imagine you on your journey to the Rainbow Bridge. You're free of cataracts; your leg is healthy, and you can be anywhere whenever you want to.
I hope you paused to hop around the moon a couple of times. Everybun says it's quite the sight. One of our hoomins called it the "magnificent desolation." Is he right?
What miracles can you see now? What really makes up the black holes? Do you get to play with photons? Can you see the x-rays coming from distant nebulas? Can you surf the gravitational waves? Do you like the sunrises and sunsets over the Ganges? So many questions and so little peace at heart.
Sometimes I imagine you are still with me, much larger, though, bigger than me in fact. You become a large, fuzzy and furry cocoon around me. You tower over me. I can hide inside you now, and I'm peeking through your semi-transparent form, looking out through your massive chest. You're surrounding me with your presence, always here, never leaving me and me never leaving you. I'm so glad you're willing to share yourself like that and comfort me.
I will never feel like I have done enough for you, or that I took good enough care of you. You have changed my life so much, I can never reciprocate that. Your presence and departure only deepened the mystery of what you did and how you did it.
- Your hoomin.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
"Pancake: What? No story, no adventure today? Wait till I tell the flight director about this, and the union rep!"
We are working on a story for next Saturday. Lining up at the tar pits was all we could handle this week.
Next time, Pancake and Mr. Toes will go on a test flight with a couple of corporate suits to show them what happens when the ivory tower loses touch with the launch tower.
We started working on a dedicated, separate site/blog to host bun fiction. Don't worry; you'll hear all about the new episodes right here first. We think it's best to let the Disapproving Bun focused on disapproving first. Maybe bun fiction can stand on its own?
As always, we're happy to hear your thoughts.
- The Disapprovers
- The Disapprovers
Friday, October 21, 2016
"They've run out of raspberries, have they now? What about the nutricarrots then?!"
Kiwi (black and white) came down hind paw paralysis. Combined with other maladies, Kiwi and Mark lost the battle last week. They have put up a great fight like you would expect a great hoomin and a brave Dutchie would.
- Our deepest sympathies, Mark
PS: Sambuca, (black) is doing well, but misses Kiwi. Mark and Sambuca are both hanging tough and taking care of bun another.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Monday, October 17, 2016
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Abby finished up in the lab and headed for the decontamination lock. When all of the lights turned green, the door opened with a hiss, and the outside air rushed in. She floated out slowly and made one final stop at her workstation. She put her hind paws into foot restraints and leaned over a small box mounted on a metal extension arm. She had to feed Amy, her pet ameba, before leaving for the night. She squeezed out a few drops of food from an eyedropper onto the dish and let the surface tension do the rest.
She headed for the greenhouse airlock, excited to see Mr. Toes again. She hasn't seen him since this morning, and that was way too long for her liking, stretching the limits of her patience. She flew down the length of the corridor, pretending to swim freestyle, then softly touched down on the closed glass doors. She checked the time. Mr. Toes was nowhere to be seen. He had the afternoon and evening off, and she wasn't sure what his plans were. She waited impatiently, floating from one side of the corridor to the other, trying to convince herself that she was not mad at him.
Then it hit her. He probably wasn't going to show up tonight, albeit he wasn't going to stand her up either. She hit the release sensor with a little extra vigor and a frown on her mouf. The door opened with a hiss, the air rushed into the airlock, carried her inside, and the door rapidly closed behind her. She hit another release button and again the pressurized air in the lock carried her out and into the greenhouse. This used to be a biohazard lab; she and Mr. Toes had converted it into a greenhouse. This section was located near the propulsion reactor, making it easy to keep it warm for the plants. They tried to grow a little bit of everything: some bitter greens, like arugula and radishes, and a lot of herbs. Mint did very well here, but the dill looked a little scary. For some reason, carrots looked more like beets, and their tops were wild and bushy.
Abby moved carefully, from one hydroponic rack to the next, as she stared intently through the thicket of greens surrounding her. She had to remind herself to stay focused and ignore the concentrated aroma of the greenery. She tried to peer through the mix of basil and vines of sweet peas. She got a hunch to head for the mint section. When she got close to it, she saw why her date hadn't shown up that night.
Mr. Toes was curled up sound asleep in the midsts of the mint forest. He had tethered himself to the water line and was snoring away, gritting his teeth gently from time to time. Abby got closer to his head and smelled his breath. Sure enough, his outbreath was minty fresh. She spotted one of the half-eaten stocks next to his head. It probably attacked him, and he had to – absolutely had to – eat it to teach the rest a lesson.
Abby gently tapped him on the nose, and Mr. Toes sprung awake, frantic, thumping and flailing with his hind paws the startled air around him, trying to run, his instincts oblivious to zero-gravity conditions. Abby put her paw on the back of his neck to calm him down and rubbed his head between the ears. He quickly returned to normal except his eyes stayed bugged out for an unnerving moment. Once he realized what had happened, he wiped his mouf with both paws and embarrassed, unclipped his tether from the water line.
"I'm sorry, Abby. I only wanted to check on the basil, and then I don't know what happened. I just got so sleepy." said Mr. Toes.
This was the fifth time that Abby had found him asleep in the greenhouse, but she didn't mind. Maybe that's what he needed these days. That little pat on his nose worked like magic every time.
Once Mr. Toes regained his composure, they drifted aft, toward the end of the greenhouse, where the crown jewel of their achievement sprawled out all over the bulkhead. The entire circular wall was covered with nutriberry shrubs. Growing flat and thick, like heather, the bushes were covered with small purple berries that turned deep red and vermillion when ripe. Mr. Toes and Abby stopped on the handle bars protruding from the bulkhead and admired the yummies in front of them. They remained motionless, watching the sunlight of an impending sunset take on a warm, amber glow, flooding sections of the garden, as the entire room turned on its axis with the rest of the craft like a rotisserie.
Then Abby's heart skipped a beat. She leaned in closer to one of the branches and examined one of the berries getting ready to ripen. It had teeth marks; something had taken a bite out of it. Around the bite, beads of juice had formed, and the berry was slowly bleeding out. Abby looked at Mr. Toes with a mix of suspicion and bewilderment, but he only shook his head in denial. He was as shocked as she was. She looked at the teeth marks again. They looked sharp and fine; she knew they weren't from Mr. Toes' mouf. Maybe it was someone from the engineering crew? She would have to have a word with Freddie, but he just didn't seem like the kind of guy who would stoop to nomming unripened berries. Everyone knew they were growing the berries for a pie. Freddie even figured out how to bake the pie in the heat exchanger, the closest approximation to an old-fashioned oven they could devise on the ship.
"Abby, how about we put a camera in here?" said Mr. Toes.
They came back in a few hours and installed a few "eyes" in the room. They even placed a panoramic, 360-degree camera right in the middle of the berry thicket. The next day, Abby and Mr. Toes realized there would be no nutriberry pie that season. In fact, they would have to dump the entire patch out of the airlock.
They watched the surveillance footage and gasped in horror when one unripened berry was devoured by her ripened neighbors.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Greetings, Everybun :-(
This post is one we never wanted to make. Mr. Bun fell gravely ill and stopped eating on Wednesday evening. When the mom vet came out after examining Mr. Bun, there was nothing that she could do for him. He had had a stroke, and his lungs were filling with fluid. All we were able to do was hold him and say our final goodbyes. We wished him peace and safe passage during his final EBA to the Rainbow Bridge. Hopefully, the disapprovers will show him around and take good care of him.
We took the picture while snorgling and enjoying treats last Sunday.
Thank you, everyone, for all your well wishes and cheers since we started posting Mr. Bun updates. We take great comfort in knowing you care.
Mr. Bun's hoomins.
PS: We'll take a few days off from posting. We'll try to return on M*nd*y. "X Plus Bun" will post on Saturday, only because it's been ready for a day or so.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Sunday, October 9, 2016
There you go, my cleanup time with parsley, raspberries, and headrubs. OK, you can't see the headrubs there, but they were plentiful. Hoomin said the morning sun was shining through the door just right so he made the chores into a little art project, sigh...
I had a nice, easy week and I expect more of the same. Hoomin's worried about me, though. His tar pits commute will be long starting M*nd*y with no end in sight, meaning he won't be able to check on me at lunch time like he used to. Cross your paws for us, pwetty pwease, sigh ...
- Mr. Bun
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Abby and I got to the office an hour before the afternoon shift ended, and we checked in with our counterparts at the sim before they left. The atmosphere in the building changed rapidly as a lot of the upper management left for the day, taking all their distractions with them.
Commander Flt. Lt. Binka Roughenberry, came out the workout room and was cooling off in the "chiller." The technicians by her side offered water and light snacks. She was a tiny lionhead, and what she lacked in physical stature, she made up for with gumption and a jolly good nature.
We were still getting used to her very short new crew cut that made her look even smaller. As soon as you met her, you had the sense that behind her smile and good nature, she was all business and disapproval, especially on the flight deck and especially if you faltered while doing your job. Today was Binka's first day at work after her quick in-patient surgery. We could barely see the tiny shaved patch on the back of her head. She'd been under observation for the past week to see if her body would accept the small, gelatinous, paper-thin sliver of carbon nanofiber implant. There appeared to be no side effects.
Binka volunteered for the implant. The idea was to see if the training of a new crew member could be accelerated by physically implanting a set of synthetic experiences in handling the craft. Imagine acquiring years of finely-tuned muscle memory without spending decades practicing to get it. This was also supposed to aid in the refresher training after extended periods of hibernation during long-duration space flights.
Pancake, the simulator supervisor, had everything ready for Binka. Dante, another lionhead and Binka's pilot, was ready and itching to go. They were the prime crew for a series of test flights of the new trainer craft. Abby and I were their backups, so we always wanted to know how things were going for them.
How that naming anachronism of "Commander" and "Pilot" survived from the days of the hoomins no bun knows exactly. Now, we're stuck with them. Back in the day, hoomins tried to make up with ego for what they lacked in body hair and ear size. None of them wanted to be called "co-pilot," so they made up the title "Commander" for the one doing the flying and "Pilot" for the one doing all the support work.
I must have been really nervous, trying to eat the whole bag of treats by myself. I didn't realize what a death grip I had on the bag until Abby tried to take it away from me. She handed me a wad of fine hay, woven into a stick. I crunched away on that like there was no tomorrow.
Once everyone had their suits, helmets, and gloves on, Pancake started the session.
The first set of scenarios went very smoothly. A simple, manual undocking didn't pose any problems for Binka or Dante. They both handled it well, and their biometrics have shown no abnormalities. Even though this was a new craft for both of them, the procedure was generic in nature and almost identical to all the other machines Binka and Dante were qualified to fly.
Next, Pancake started introducing malfunctions. Simple things, such as bad circuit breakers, or a partial loss of power. Keep in mind that these emergencies were new to Binka and Dante. They have not practiced handling any of them in this craft, and both had only read the appropriate checklists. Dante showed a little uptick in heart rate, a little warmer paws and ears, but not Binka. Dante started to show what we were used to seeing — the effects of stress on performance and physiology. Binka stayed as cool as a cucumber. The difference became stark when they switched roles; Dante acted as the commander, and Binka was the pilot.
The difference became even more pronounced as Pancake increased the complexity of the failures. Binka remained completely calm while Dante was getting visibly worn out and approaching his limits. Whenever we took a break, Dante drank a lot of water and snacked on sweet carrots while Binka hardly licked the water bottle. It made sense since her biometrics hardly flinched under the increased workload. We thought, "Well, that's the whole point of the implant and this exercise." During subsequent sessions, Dante reached his breaking point. We decided to cut the day short and call it a night (or early morning, if you will).
Dante seemed a little put off and despondent as we debriefed the sessions while Binka hardly seemed tired. The next day, Dante got better (as we expected), but Binka remained unchallenged. Toward the end of the day, Pancake decided to throw at them a small kitchen sink of cascading failures to see how the crew would handle it, and that's when things got interesting. Dante struggled and faltered; we expected a breaking point somewhere, and Dante knew it. Binka, on the other paw, stayed ahead of everybun.
As soon as the flight turned into an emergency, she completely took over the craft and kept it under control well past the point of what we thought anybun and even the autopilot could handle. Finally, Pancake introduced a propulsion system meltdown. Dante was wild-eyed and exasperated, while Binka ...
That's when we knew something was wrong. She remained undisturbed, completely undisturbed. She continued to work the unsolvable problem, attempting to control a wreck that was adrift. At no point after declaring an emergency did she issue the command to abandon the ship.
"Binka, well done, you can stop now!" called out Pancake, her voice uncertain. Binka didn't stop and continued trying to regain control of the drifting wreck, calling out flight parameters and repeatedly trying to bring the power plant online. She wouldn't stop. Eventually, she froze in her seat, wouldn't get out of it, and became unresponsive. Her EEG monitor indicated a deep sleep condition.
"Better get the medics, Pancake." said Abby.
The medical stuff had to unstrap Binka from her seat to administer intravenous fluids and took her to the hospital. We stayed by her side until late morning and finally went home to get some sleep. When we came back, Binka was declared "stable." What the doctors meant was that she was no longer dehydrated and that her life was in no danger. However, no bun could communicate with her. After a few days, we noticed that she only responded to cues about flight parameters. She became a living guidance system. The medical consortium decided that our last chance of bringing Binka back was the removal of the bio-implant.
That did nothing to improve her condition. After a few weeks, we were told that we have a newborn Binka on our paws. The "autopilot" she had become was a permanent condition. It became a part of her autonomic nervous system, and at the same time, she was displaying behaviour consistent with a newborn bunlet. She recognized no bun, she wanted to nurse, and she kept her eyes closed all the time. The doctors had hoped she would open them in a few days. They were cautiously optimistic and predicted she might walk again. We were afraid of what she might talk about should she ever speak again.
Friday, October 7, 2016
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Of course, darling! The Nobel Prize in physics should have been yours. No bun knows more about disapprovons than you do and if that's not exotic matter, then what is?
- Thank you, Dev!
PS: You can follow Miss Honey and The Professor on FB.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Sunday, October 2, 2016
This is the commencement of our "working bun dinner and a movie" routine. Greens were plentiful and yammeh, with an excellent SARx ball made with berries and nanner. All followed by a lot of snurgles, a lot of snurgles.
Of course, we're holding our own as best as we can. Best of all we have nothing new to worry about. My belleh is doing well; hence bum bafs are easy. Las week I had a couple of quick rinses, but that's about all.
- Mr. Bun
PS: He put something creepy behind me, didn't he? I'll try to nip him for that; because why not?
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Lately, the bunstronaut office kept Molly very busy, and she rarely got to play with her Skyhop-172, an old four-seater aeroplane that she helped her grandma restore. The following night was the time for the harvest moon, so she was going to enjoy this view from the air. It had been a while since she enjoyed some night flying. Thus, prudence dictated knocking off any rust that had accumulated on her paws over the past few weeks.
Molly turned on her electric water kettle to make some tea and powered up her desktop flight simulator. She sat down to practice a few landings at her home aerodrome and placed the icon of her plane on a straight-in approach to a runway landing west. In front of her, the digital city at night looked very much like the real one. Indeed, she thought the sim did the view enough justice to remind her of how much she loved the actual night view. The exercise went on boringly enough, so she had to force herself to pay attention. When she got closer to the runway, her toes danced gently on the rudder pedals; she was getting a feel for the machine at slow speed when the airflow is slow over the wings and controls and are not as effective as they are at cruising speed. The slower her plane flew, the more pressure she had to put on the controls to make the machine do what she wanted it to do. She was almost hovering above the runway now, keeping up the nose of her Skyhop, sinking gently and waiting for the squeak of the tires.
Molly paused and on another screen, zoomed in on the image of her ground track. She scrutinized the red lines plotted over the map. She grimaced; no matter how straight the lines looked, she thought they could be straighter.
The electric water kettle started to whistle. The herbal, spicy tea smelled delicious, and Moly set a small teapot to brew the goodness. While that was getting ready, she repeated the exercise one more time and then took a break to enjoy the hot beverage.
It was getting late, but she promised herself just one more go on the sim. She pulled up her chair, got comfortable, and quickly glancing at the control panel, hit a button to begin a new session. Gripping the yoke, she anticipated seeing the familiar night scene.
When the scene loaded, it looked odd. Molly recognized the city and the airport, but the runway was wrong. She felt a squeeze in her belleh. She hit the wrong button and set herself up for the approach to the wrong runway, the one running north-south! A quiet voice needled her, "Remember, when you swore to look before you click anything?" In another split moment, she decided to carry on with the exercise just the way it was. The simulated winds were OK; this would work. If she reset the sim now, the night would only get longer. She promised herself that above all else, she would get some decent sleep tonight. She stared at the evening scene and momentarily forgot she was looking at a computer screen. The exercise took only a few minutes and came to a smooth, soft touchdown. She threw back the rest of her tea, licked her lips with satisfaction and called it a night.
The next day, Molly couldn't wait to go to the aerodrome. She had hoped that the late afternoon thunderstorms would dissipate in time to let the harvest moon shine. Storm clouds were to the north and south of where she wanted to go, and they looked like she would have no trouble with them. The evening was approaching fast, and she knew she would have to treat the flight like a proper night flight. Flashlights? Check! Red headlight? Check! She had a bunch of torches; all were working properly.
She flew to the practice area over the ocean as the night fell and the only light in the sky came from the distant lightning. There would be no harvest moon for her to enjoy tonight.
She didn't let that dampen her spirits, though. She carried out her practice routine the way she planned it, made mental notes on what to improve next time, and she enjoyed every second of it. The lightning illuminated the monstrous clouds far away, putting on a spectacular show, just as powerful and awe-inspiring as any moon. That's what Mother Nature was serving for supper tonight, and Molly's soul was grateful for the plate.
The only regret she had was that the flight would be coming to an end soon and she would have to disappear into, and mingle with, the masses hidden among the city lights below.
She got the clearance to land early, miles away from the aerodrome, and she thought, "What a shame no bunny else is up in the air enjoying the beautiful night. On the other paw, it's nice to have the entire aerodrome to oneself." She realized what was about to happen. Molly was setting up to land to the north on runway three-six. That was the scenario from the night before when she hit the "wrong" button. She felt goosebumps spreading all over her body from the cuticles of her hind paws to the tips of her ears, but she had to pay attention now. The "before landing check" had to be done, traffic had to be looked out for, and no matter what happened, the plane had to be flown.
Molly rolled out from the turn and lined the plane up with the runway. The scenery in front of her looked exactly as her practice run did on the "toy" simulator at home. Molly wiggled her toes and softly danced on the rudder pedals; her front paw gently gripped the yoke. It was pitch dark outside, and she could only make out where the runway was from the little lights placed along its edges.
She held her craft steady, her paws relaxed and attentive, feeling the plane, nursing it to a smooth touchdown. She barely noticed the tiniest of squeaks when the wheels of her Skyhop caressed the tarmac and settled down for good.
The hair on top of her head tingled. She was certain that if there were a thin, fuzzy line between "play" and "reality," it vanished somewhere since last night. As her aeroplane rolled to a stop, she kissed her lucky cuticle that pressed the "wrong" button last night.