I open the door leading to the garage and Fleegle appears out of nowhere at my heels.
“Where are we going, Raud?”
“I feel like meatballs.”
“Ooo, Monkey Sub Shop?”
He jumps in the car ahead of me and we back out of the garage.
“Maybe Rich will give you some meat scraps to give to me,” Fleegle says and begins to drool. The man who makes the sandwiches doesn’t like to waste the end pieces of the meat and gives them to customers with dogs.
“You never know.”
* * *
When I return to the car with my meatball sub that includes a free nap, I also have a small bundle of end pieces and meat shavings for Fleegle. They consist of roast beef, pastrami, ham, turkey, salami, pepperoni, etc. If they put it on a sandwich, it leaves tidbits in the slicer for the lucky dog that shows up that day.
Bouncing from seat to seat, Fleegle repeats his mantra, “Oh yum, oh yum.”
He shoves his nose at the bundle as I open the car door.
“Scoot over,” I say. He stands shotgun and I get behind the wheel.
“I love Monkey Subs. They’re the best ever,” he says.
“But you’ve never had one, and I don’t think you’ve ever snatched my sandwich off my desk. That’s something I wouldn’t forget.”
He nose bumps the bundle in my hand. “But I’ve had most everything that goes into them. Boy, could I design them a sandwich fit for a dog.”