I’m in the garage trying to make order out of the growing clutter of bicycle parts, motorcycle bits, and accumulated kipple, when Fleegle ambles in and adds his spit covered ball to it all. It rolls across the floor, leaving a wet trail behind it like a large yellow slug.
“How’s it going, Fleegle?” I ask.
“It’s Mr. Fleegle to you, Raudy boy.”
“Oh really? What are you now, some sort of neighborhood big shot?”
“I just learned about dog years, and one day I’ll be older than you, so I just figured you should start showing your elders their due respect.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“Aside from addressing me as Sir, you can prepare me a plate of cucumber sandwiches and follow me around until I’ve settled in an armchair of my liking.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“And you can shine my shoes, polish my spats and brush the felt of my top hat.”
“But you don’t wear shoes and the last felt hat you touched ended up shredded in a thousand pieces.”
“All that’s going to change now that I’ve learned that I am the ambassador to Labrador.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“The neighbors called me that on account of me being so quiet and well behaved.”
“They obviously haven’t heard you snore or twisted their ankle in one of the holes you’ve dug in the yard.”