I’m in the backyard digging a hole when Fleegle sees what I’m doing and runs over. “Are you looking for more buried treasure? More marinated rawhide?”
“No. I’m digging a hole for that plant.” I point at a small rhodie in its black rubber tub sitting on the grass a few feet away.
“I’ll help,” he says and jumps into the hole and starts digging.
I lean on my shovel and watch as he scoops pawfuls of dirt between his rear legs. He’s digging the hole deeper but not getting the dirt out of the hole, and without running the risk of hitting his paws with the shovel I can’t really dig.
“Fleegle, why don’t you supervise and I’ll dig?”
“Supervise? How do I do that?”
“All you need to do is sit on your backside and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”
“Oh, that’ll be easy.”
“Must be why it’s such a popular job.”
We trade places and I start digging.
After a moment, Fleegle clears his throat. “You’re doing it all wrong, Raud. You need to throw the dirt through your legs, not off to the side.”
When the hole is dug, I open a bag of compost and pour some into the hole.
“That smells wonderful,” Fleegle says and jumps in the hole. His eyes glaze over as he rolls onto his back and starts grinding his shoulders into the compost. “What is this stuff?”
“Compost with bat guano.”
“What’s guano mean?”
“That’s Spanish for bath time.”