Fleegle drinks from the bird fountain as I doodle on my notepad in the sun, thinking up another post for Fleegle’s ongoing adventures and imagining what he would say if he really could talk. I stop doodling and write down: Fleegle rolls onto his back in the grass and slurs around the gooey tennis ball in his mouth, “I wuv my ball.”
As I write, Fleegle sidles up to me, eyeballs what I’m writing, then rubs his wet snout on the page. “What kind of sappy stuff is that?” he asks as he sits back on his haunches and starts scratching at the side of his head with his back paw.
My mouth drops open at what I’m hearing. He really can talk.
He continues, “I should be saying something like: Get off me, fleas, before I crush you like this ball.”
I continue staring and wonder if that mushroom soup I had for lunch was made of “special” mushrooms picked by Grateful Dead fans in the woods.
“What’s wrong, Raud? You didn’t think I could read, huh? That chicken scratch of yours is pretty much undecipherable, could be ancient cuneiform if I didn’t know better, but I’ve had plenty of practice cracking that code. I like to read what I shred. Unless it’s TV Guide, that I just shred.”