We pull into a parking spot in front of the take and bake pizza place.
Fleegle sniffs at the inch wide gap at the top of the shotgun window. “I can smell it from here. I can smell pizza through brick walls. Why ever eat kibble when there’s pizza?”
“You’re drooling.” I open my door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting, and drooling.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I return minutes later, saran wrapped pizza in hand. “Stay in your seat, please,” I say as I slide the pizza on the dashboard in front of me and get behind the wheel.
Sitting next to a puddle of drool, Fleegle stares intently at the pizza as if with his gaze alone he could levitate it into his mouth. He leans toward it as far as he can, vigorously sniffing the air while barely keeping his butt on his seat.
He sees me glancing at him, ready to guard the pizza from sudden attack. “What? I’m just making sure you got the right pizza and not someone else’s.”