Fleegle and I are in the den, being couch potatoes watching television.

“This can really help you with your self-image,” the guest on the couch says to the television talk show host.

Fleegle stops chewing on his ball and snorts, “What are these people talking about?”

“It’s almost over.”

“Self-image? What’s that? And why does it need help? Is it in trouble?” he asks. “Did it poop in the house?”

“A self-image is how you see yourself.”

“So that dog who lives in the mirror is my self-image? He doesn’t look like he needs any help. He’s always got a tennis ball in his mouth. What more could he ask for?”

“No, it’s how you see yourself inside your head.”

“But I can’t see inside my head. Can you?” He rolls his eyes, trying to look at the back of his head. “Do I have a hole back there where you can see inside?” He shoves the back of his head at me. “Take a look. What’s my self-image doing? He better not be sitting on his backside on a fat couch watching nonsense on television.”

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