Fleegle supervises as I set the table for dinner.
“Why do we eat turkey on Thanksgiving?” he asks.
“As in it’s tradition to sing the national anthem before baseball games?”
“I don’t know if that’s sung out of tradition or patriotism.”
“Are turkeys patriotic?”
I glance at the cooked bird cooling on the counter, steam rising off it. “I highly doubt it.”
“Because quite a lot of them get eaten on Thanksgiving.”
“No turkey rights, huh?”
“Well, this is America, so you do have the right to act like a turkey.” I spoon stuffing onto Fleegle’s plate, then some mashed potatoes.
“Just not lucky if you’re born one.” Fleegle slicks back his whiskers with his tongue. “I’ll take more stuffing than that, please.”
I spoon some more onto his plate, then begin sharpening the carving knife. “Do you want dark meat or light meat?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Leg or breast?”
“Oh, leg of course. Dogs always go for the leg.”
* * *
“What’s for lunch, Raud?” Fleegle asks.
“Not more turkey?”
“Yep, more turkey. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me not to waste food?”
“No, it’s me who is always offering to clean the dishes.”
I get the turkey carcass from the fridge and set it on the counter.
Fleegle whines. “This is like the fourth or fifth day of turkey.”
“It’s a big bird.”
“Can’t we skip it and go straight to the pumpkin pie? What was that fluffy white stuff called again?”
“Whipped cream, but we’re out of pie.”
“Awe, come on, what kind of kitchen are you running? Is Hamburger Heaven open?”
I pause to give Fleegle a good looking over. “You know, maybe we should fast for a day.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Fast?”
“Not eat for a day.”
“Why? I’m not fat. You’re not fat.”
“But your expectations are, and if you go without you’ll better appreciate what you have.”