Negotiating with Cookies #21 – Self Help

Published on by Raud Kennedy1 Comment

Fleegle and I are in the den, being couch potatoes watching television.

“This can really help you with your self-image,” the guest on the couch says to the television talk show host.

Fleegle stops chewing on his ball and snorts, “What are these people talking about?”

“It’s almost over.”

“Self-image? What’s that? And why does it need help? Is it in trouble?” he asks. “Did it poop in the house?”

“A self-image is how you see yourself.”

“So that dog who lives in the mirror is my self-image? He doesn’t look like he needs any help. He’s always got a tennis ball in his mouth. What more could he ask for?”

“No, it’s how you see yourself inside your head.”

“But I can’t see inside my head. Can you?” He rolls his eyes, trying to look at the back of his head. “Do I have a hole back there where you can see inside?” He shoves the back of his head at me. “Take a look. What’s my self-image doing? He better not be sitting on his backside on a fat couch watching nonsense on television.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #20 – Cheese for Fleegle

Published on by Raud Kennedy2 Comments

Fleegle sits next to me on the couch, watching my every bite. “You know, the proper way to eat pizza is with your hands, not on a plate with a fork,” he says.

“And how would you know this?”

He jerks his nose at the television screen. “That’s how everyone on your television does it. Maybe you missed that lesson. You think I just sleep, but sometimes I watch it too.”

“Eating it by hand when it’s hot is a quick way to burn the roof of my mouth and ruin the whole pizza experience.”

“How’s that Parmesan taste?” Drool dangles from his lower lip. “Aren’t you glad you put on extra like I told you to?”

“Most of it has fallen off onto the plate.”

He licks his lips. The drool breaks free.  “Yes, I’ve noticed. You’re lucky to have such a good plate cleaner handy.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #19 – Parmesan

Published on by Raud Kennedy1 Comment

“Put more Parmesan cheese on it, Raud,” Fleegle says as I grate a block of it over the two slices of pizza on my plate. “Don’t hold back. Parmesan really completes the flavor. Go on, keep grating.”

“You’re drooling again,” I say.

Fleegle eyes the block of cheese in my hand. “That’s a smart move, buying that fresh block of Parmesan. It’s the best, far better than that sawdust in the green tube.”

“You would know. You stole the tube off the counter.”

“It’s not stealing when you leave it out free for the taking. The cardboard was almost better tasting than the cheese like substance inside it.”

“But it sure did soak up the drool.”

He nose bumps my leg. “You drool too, you know.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Go look at your pillow. You must dream of Parmesan in your sleep. I know I do, but the fresh stuff, not the tube stuff.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #18 – 425 Degrees for 14 Minutes

Published on by Raud Kennedy1 Comment

Fleegle stares at the pizza through the little window on the oven door. “It’s done, Raud, you can take it out now.”

“It’s not done. I just put it in.” I glance at the timer. “It still has twelve minutes and eight seconds, seven, six to go before it’s done baking.”

Fleegle looks skeptically at the timer. “That timer runs on batteries, doesn’t it? I don’t trust batteries.”

“It’s working. I can see the milliseconds flash by.”

“Milliseconds don’t flash by, they crawl, they slither, they creep, they don’t move at all. Is it done yet?”

“Thinking about it like that will only make it seem even longer before it’s done. Why don’t you go outside and check for squirrels.”

“Squirrels, you said squirrels,” he says and bolts for the open patio door, but slides to a stop halfway there and looks over his shoulder at me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t start without you,” I say and glance at the timer. “You have eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds to chase squirrels.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #17 – Take and Bake

Published on by Raud Kennedy2 Comments

We pull into a parking spot in front of the take and bake pizza place.

Fleegle sniffs at the inch wide gap at the top of the shotgun window. “I can smell it from here. I can smell pizza through brick walls. Why ever eat kibble when there’s pizza?”

“You’re drooling.” I open my door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be waiting, and drooling.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I return minutes later, saran wrapped pizza in hand. “Stay in your seat, please,” I say as I slide the pizza on the dashboard in front of me and get behind the wheel.

Sitting next to a puddle of drool, Fleegle stares intently at the pizza as if with his gaze alone he could levitate it into his mouth. He leans toward it as far as he can, vigorously sniffing the air while barely keeping his butt on his seat.

He sees me glancing at him, ready to guard the pizza from sudden attack. “What? I’m just making sure you got the right pizza and not someone else’s.”

 

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