I hear something being dragged along the floor and look up from my desk in the den to see Fleegle halfway through his dog door, a pair of my jeans trailing him.
I call after him, “Whoa there, big fella. What do you think you’re doing?”
His rump is all that’s sticking through my side of the dog door, and his tail is held low and still, as if he’s trying not to be noticed.
“Well?” I ask.
Slowly, he backs up through the door into the den. The pant leg of my jeans hangs from his mouth. “Nothing much, just going out to the yard.”
“With my jeans?”
“Well, not really. I’m only after the plastic thingy in the pocket.”
“So you’re going to drag my jeans out in the yard and rip the pocket open to get at the lip balm?”
“Something like that. Any suggestions on how to do it better?”
I pick up my jeans and transfer the lip balm to the jeans I’m wearing. “No, not really,” I say and return to my seat at my desk.
“Boy, Raud, feeling grumpy?”
“Only a little chapped.”