There's a quality to this coffee that left me panting like a golden retriever. A briskness. A tang. I hobbled over on shaggy arthritic hips to the bathroom and sat down (this happened after I finished the can). My wife had moved all the magazines, so I had to make do with catalogs. A catalog. So I read about organic aprons or something and tried to push the coffee thoughts out of my mind. This was impossible, though, because of how excellent the aftertaste was. I then, well, I chased my tail. Frustrated beyond measure, I nosed open the door with my formidable, greying snout and shot across the room. My pads are like massive black soybeans that are poorly designed for holding cans.

But hold them I do, because that's my job. "We need you to review canned coffee," they told me. "OK," I said. People dismiss me because of my pink-and-black mottled gums and lumpen tail filled with coniferous debris. And yes, I occasionally stutter and have poor organizational skills. And OK yes I sometimes have wayward thoughts on commuter trains. But I've got a secret, a good one, and I know I'm headed for something wonderful. I can't give you more details, but just keep watching me and you'll see.

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