“Look, Raud, a stork with a baby,” Fleegle shouts from his seat on the couch overlooking the backyard through the den window.
A seagull with a Subway sandwich wrapper in its beak flies by.
“Not big enough,” I say.
A little while later, he asks, “What about them? They’re huge.”
Ducks and geese land in the yard, well fed and plump from a mild winter.
“Nope, they’re not storks. Go chase them away before they poop all over the patio.”
He remains seated on the couch. “Are you sure they’re not storks? Maybe they’re in disguise.”
“Storks won’t land if ducks are in the yard.”
“Oh,” he says, then bolts through the double flaps of the dog door into the yard. “Woof, woof.”
A little later Fleegle comes inside through his dog door, a green smear on his snout.
I ask, “What’s that on your nose?”
His tongue darts out and swipes both sides of his mouth, slicking back his whiskers and getting rid of the evidence. “Nothing.”
“What’s that sheepish expression on your face for then?”
“You told me to chase the ducks and geese away, but you didn’t tell me they made such yummy treats.”
He licks his lips again. “I did.”