Out in the yard while doing waste cleanup, I spot Fleegle chomping on something. “Fleegle, what are you eating?”

He looks up at me and continues to chew. “Well, a few days ago it was Franny’s kibble with a few biscuits mixed in for tricks well done.”

“What do you mean ‘a few days ago’?”

“Raud, you’re usually quicker than this. What I mean by ‘a few days ago’ is that now, today, sitting on the lawn, duh, it’s poop.”

“Fleegle, don’t you eat that.”

“Just because it doesn’t look like kibble and biscuits anymore doesn’t mean it isn’t. It still is, but with Franny’s personal stamp on it. I could say that about half the things you eat.”

“I don’t eat poop.”

“How would you know you? You haven’t smelled your food like I have. Remember that my nose is so sensitive I can smell a mouse fart under the house. It’s not like Snickers or whoever are going to be honest about the ingredients in your candy bar and actually put rat droppings on the ingredient list.”

*   *   *

Fleegle and I get in the car.

“Why isn’t Franny coming with us?” Fleegle asks.

“Because she doesn’t need therapy.”

“You’re getting therapy? That’s good, Raud. I’ve thought you could use some of that for a long time. What kind of therapy are you getting? My favorite is massage therapy.”

“Not me, you.”

“I’m getting massage therapy? Oh goody.”

“No, you’re getting psychological therapy.”

“They have those kind of therapists for dogs?”

“Well, sort of. I found the next closest thing.”

“Why do I need therapy and not you and Franny? If anyone needs therapy it’s the two of you. Maybe this is a case of displacement and you’re taking me to therapy because deep down you know you’re the one who needs it most?”

“I’m not the one eating poop.”

“You’re taking me to a poop therapist?”

“No, I’m taking you to a therapist for eating poop.”

“Why? Does the therapist like to eat poop too?”

*   *   *

We pull into the mini-mall parking lot and find a space close to the building, a single story affair with a row of office fronts.

When I open my door, Fleegle says, “This place smells wonderful. Are you sure this isn’t a poop therapist? That sign in the window is offering two for one coffee enemas until inauguration day.”

There is indeed a sign offering that in the window next to a door labeled, Colon Hydrotherapy. Only in Portland, I think and point to the door next to it. “We’re going in that one. The one that reads animal psychic.”

“The one with the neon tarot card in the window?”

Feeling ridiculous as I get out of the car, I say, “Yes.”

“So the poop therapist, with a freshly caffeinated colon, is a psychic who’s going to predict my future?”

“I want to know if you’re acting out your mommy issues by eating poop.”

“You mean I eat poop because of something in a past life?”

I turn and look at Fleegle. “This is pretty stupid, eh?”

“Maybe you should consult your higher self, but I predict the psychic will forecast poop in the future.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there is poop in everyone’s future, even the psychic’s. Poop is the backside of life, it’s what gives the universe balance to that burrito joint we passed down the street on the way here. You know, they have a two for one burrito special going on too. Maybe after this we could stop there for lunch on the way home.” He jumps out of the car. “And get one to go for Franny so I can have burritos again in a few days.”

Next Bartering with Biscuits – Feeding Hollywood

Previous Bartering with Biscuits – Pickled

First Bartering with Biscuits – The Puppy