“Hey, chunky monkey, how’s it going?” I say to Fleegle as he joins me on the couch to watch television.
“I’m not as chunky as you. Look at your big couch potato belly. Pressing that remote must give you quite the workout. Changing the channel is like a hundred pound bench press for your thumb. And lifting that spoonful of ice cream all the way to your mouth, well that must be like running a marathon for your arm. Very impressive.”
“Shush, watch the show,” I say.
“The show is just there to occupy your eyes while your mouth does all the work, like your jaw on a Stairmaster. I’m on to you. Always with the chocolate.”
“How do you mean?”
Fleegle snorts his derision. “You only bought chocolate ice cream so you wouldn’t have to share with me.”
“It’s not my fault dogs can’t eat chocolate.”
“You tell me it’s bad for me every time you bring it home. What’s wrong with getting vanilla or strawberry for a change? I like vanilla and strawberry.”
“I happen to like chocolate more than vanilla and strawberry.”
“No, you happen to like not sharing.” He jumps off the couch and leaves the room, then returns with a very slimy tennis ball he was chewing on earlier and drops the filthy thing in my lap, slobber and all.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I’m teaching you by example.” He nudges the gooey mess with his nose, smearing dog spit and mud on my jeans. “I’m sharing my ball.”