Category: Negotiating with Cookies

Fleegle yells in panic and runs from the living room picture window. “Raud, the wolves have followed us home. They just passed the house. One even peed on my mailbox.”

“A taste of your own medicine, huh?” I get up from my desk and go take a look out the picture window. Two coyotes are cruising down the street at a good trot. It’s also garbage day and everyone has put their cans out on the curb for pickup. “And I thought it was the neighborhood dogs tipping over the cans.”

“Ooo, I bet that’s fun. Can we do that?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

“But the cans will be empty tomorrow.”

“Exactly.”

 

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I’m stretched out on the psychiatrist’s red leather couch, my first appointment seeking help.

“So what seems to be bothering you?” the psychiatrist asks from behind my shoulder where he sits out of view. His voice is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it.

“It’s my dog. He’s driving me crazy.”

“Dogs can do that. But they can also mirror back to us our own troublesome issues. Like the dog who poops in the husband’s shoes when he walks allover the wife, who is the dog’s favorite. The dog is trying to teach the wife to stand up for herself. Is your dog pooping in your girlfriend’s shoes? Maybe you could be more specific? What does your dog do that drives you crazy?”

“Let me rephrase that. It’s not that he’s driving me crazy with his bad behavior, but that I think I’m going crazy because he speaks to me, just like a person does. He’ll come into the room where I am and ask me what I’m doing, like a coworker or something. And I can understand him just as I can understand you now, doctor.”

“You must be a good companion to your dog. Consider yourself lucky. A lot more people would understand their dogs if they’d only stop and listen to them.” The familiarity of the psychiatrist’s voice nags at me. “But I tell you what, Mr. Kennedy, I’m going to write you a prescription that should help you with the anxiety you’re feeling.”

“A prescription for what?” I ask.

“Chocolate, of course.”

I finally recognize the voice, sit up and look over my shoulder. Fleegle sits in the psychiatrist’s chair, legs crossed, and a prescription pad on his knee with a pen shaped like a dog biscuit held ready over the page.

I run my hand down my face. “Have I dreamt myself into Fleegle World again?”

Fleegle shakes his head. “Oh no, this is Raudy Boy World. If this were Fleegle World, that red leather couch you’re sitting on would be brown and made of chocolate sponge cake. Wouldn’t that be comfortable?” He jumps off his chair in excitement. “Ooo, but look, you kept your Labrador tail. Maybe it’s there to stay and you’ll still have it when you wake up. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

 

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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Cat World

I’m woken in the morning by Fleegle pulling the lower half of the covers off the bed and licking my feet.

“Hey, stop that.” I squirm to get me feet away from him, but he’s like white on rice, following my feet wherever I move them. “That tickles.”

“I’m cleaning them for you.”

“Huh?” I sit up, fully awake now, and look down at my feet. They’re covered in dark brown mud. I don’t remember going for a walk in the backyard last night in my bare feet, and that’s something I’d remember. Besides, the mud back there isn’t nearly as dark as what’s on my feet, and as one who lives with a dog, I’ve learned it’s best to keep my feet covered.

Maybe one of the neighbors has mud that dark. “Fleegle, did I sleep walk out the front door last night?”

“Nope, you hardly moved at all.”

“Then how’d I get mud all over my feet?”

“It’s not mud, Raud. It’s chocolate.”

“Nonsense.”

“It taste really good.” He goes for my feet again, his tongue leading the way as it flaps about.

“That explains your persistence.” I swing my feet off the bed. “And more reason for you to knock it off. Chocolate is bad for dogs.”

“Not this chocolate.” He jumps off the bed and circles back toward my feet. “This chocolate is different.”

Last night’s dream begins to filter into my consciousness. I vaguely remember sitting on a large rock of chocolate in Fleegle World. “Is this chocolate from… Is that even possible?”

“Oh yeah, why do you think I clean my feet every morning first thing when I wake up?”

“I thought it was because you had yeasty paws again and it was time to spray them with apple cider vinegar solution.”

“Vinegar and chocolate? Haven’t had it. Is it any good?”

 

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I sit on a rock in the middle of a sea, surrounded by water for as far as I can see, without an island or a ship or even a passing seagull in sight. I’m contemplating my solitude, gazing at the water, when I notice that instead of it having the usual grayish blue tint, it’s brown and the foam on the wave caps is a Hershey’s brown. I dip my finger in the water, give it a sniff, and taste it. Yep, it’s chocolate, and this is Fleegle World. I’m relieved because now I know I’m dreaming, but apprehensive because it’s Fleegle’s dream world and you need quick reflexes in the land of Labradors.

On the distant edge of the ocean’s curvature, a protruding speck catches my attention. As the minutes pass and it gets closer, it grows to the size of a pea, then a grape, then a plum, until I recognize the amble of Fleegle walking on water, on chocolate syrup water, that it.

“You can do it too. Remember where you are,” he calls out. “Anything is possible here. All it takes is some Labrador enthusiasm.” He stops a few feet away and raises his front paw to point at my backside. “Look, you’ve sprouted a tail.”

I stand and twist around to look at my rear, and there, to my shock, a tail sticks out from the base of my spine through a specially sewn hole in my jeans. The tail is covered in thick brown fur, the mirror image of Fleegle’s.

“Now that is one nice looking tail,” Fleegle says. “I guess you’re part Labrador after all. It’s good that you are because a hairless tail might give you the look of a rodent. Not that I don’t like creatures from the rodent family, but rats and opossums have ugly tails. Are squirrels rodents? They have very pretty tails.”

I try to pull the tail loose but it’s not going anywhere. “Did you put this on me?”

“Nope, that’s all your doing. Didn’t you recently wish you were a Labrador? You did, a couple of weeks ago. You looked right at me and said, Mr. Fleegle, sir, I sure wish I was a Labrador like you, all sleek and shiny in brown fur. Well, your wish has come true, at least part of it.”

“Hmm,” I grunt, nonplussed.

“I want to show you something. Take a nibble on that rock you’re sitting on.”

I tilt my head at Fleegle, but then remember where I am and reach down for a loose piece of rock. It’s oddly soft to the touch as I pop it in my mouth. Ha, it’s chocolate. Then something startles me by thumping against my hips, one side then the other, again and again. It’s my tail and it’s slapping my sides as it wags very vigorously.

“See? You’re happy,” Fleegle says.

My startled smile turns to a big grin. “I am. I am very happy. But my tail itches.”

“Oh, lucky you, your tail came with chocolate covered fleas. You can eat those, but you have to catch your tail first.”

 

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