Negotiating with Cookies #42 – Carhop Service

Fleegle and I pull into the drive-in. I roll down the window and glance over the menu of artery clogging delights, burgers from large to triple large, and fries so oily you could power a city with a single order. “We’ll need a nap after this one. I’m glad we’ve got bucket seats.”

“This place smells wonderful,” Fleegle says. “Where are we?”

“You’re in for a treat, Fleegle. This is Hamburger Heaven, the most awesome burgers and fries west of the Mississippi.”

From the menu, a distorted electronic voice asks from a tiny speaker that has been corroded by the rain, “Can I take your order, please?”

Fleegle’s ears tilt toward the voice. “Who’s that?”

“That’s the burger god,” I say and order for us.

A little while later, a waitress arrives with our food and places a tray on our window. The aroma of greasy goodness wafts through the car.

Fleegle watches her leave. “Who was that? What did she bring us?”

“That was the burger angel and she brought us these.” I offer Fleegle a French fry. He takes my whole hand.

“We’re going to have to work on your manners.” I offer him another. “Just the fry, not my hand.”

*   *   *

The next time we stop for gas, and this being Oregon where you don’t pump your own but must wait for the attendant to come to your car window, I look over at Fleegle and see a long strand of drool hanging from his mouth as he watches the gas station attendant walk down the row of pumps toward us. “Look, Raud, here comes a burger angel.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #41 – Invisible Love

While sitting in the car at a red light, Fleegle and I watch a dog standing motionless in his front yard. “Why doesn’t that dog leave his yard?” Fleegle asks. “There’s no fence and lots to smell in the neighbor’s yard. I can smell a fresh one from here.”

“That’s gross.”

“What? It’s true. Don’t be such a prude.”

“This is a long light. And I’m really hungry,” I say. “I wish lights like these had carhop service.”

“What’s carhop service?”

“I’ll show you sometime. You’ll love it.”

The dog still hasn’t moved. If I hadn’t seen his head move I’d think he was a piece of lawn art. Fleegle barks at him. “Oh, don’t do that,” I say. “It’s not his fault. Do you see the little white flags that run along the edge of the lawn around the house?”

“Yeah.”

“See the little black box on his collar?”

“Yeah.”

“If he gets too close to the flags, the black box will give him an electric shock. It’s called an invisible fence.”

“Like the time I chewed on the cord for the television?”

“Yeah, like that.”

Fleegle cocks his head to the side, confused. “Why would he wear a collar that would do that to him?”

“His family put it on him.”

“Don’t they love him?”

“I’m sure they do,” I say.

“So what is it then? They’re so heavily into the S&M that they need to drag the dog into it too?”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #40 – Fleegle Hears a h’Hoo

While camping in the woods, Fleegle nose bumps me awake in our tent. I flick on the flashlight and point it at him, the fur on his head is bunched up in wrinkles and his ears are on alert, listening.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

I rub my eyes. “Hear what?”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“No, what?”

“It must be very quiet in your world with your hearing being so weak.”

“With you around? Not really,” I say. “This thing you heard, what did it sound like?”

“Like an owl farting.”

“I didn’t know they could.”

“I didn’t either. Why do you think I’m so troubled? All won’t be right in the woods if it’s hoo-h’HOO-toot-toot.”

I flick off the flashlight. “Fleegle, go back to sleep.”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #39 – Fleegle Brut

While on a walk in the woods, Fleegle stops to roll in the brush, grinding his shoulder against one spot on the ground in particular.

“That better not be coyote poop you’re rolling in,” I say.

He stops rolling and stands, tan smear marks along his shoulder and flank. “I smell so cool now. Here, sniff.” He runs over.

I pinch my nose and make a sour face. “That is the most pungent, disgusting smell. Why, Fleegle, why?”

“What is it you say? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” He runs back and rolls in the stink some more. “A fragrant scent is in the nose of the sniffer.”

“It appears we’re going to test out your new shampoo sooner than planned. You have a choice, Fruity Mango or Lilac Love?”

“Don’t you have anything more macho like Coyote Brut?”

“Isn’t that what you’re wearing?”

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #38 – Fleegle Finds Purpose

I’m sitting in the yard with a book on discovering one’s passion when Fleegle ambles over and leans against me. “Whatcha reading?” he asks.

“This book says that if I follow my joy it will lead me to my life’s purpose.”

His tail starts wagging. “Well if you’re looking for your life’s purpose, I better go get you my ball. I love playing fetch,” he says and runs off to find it.

 

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Negotiating with Cookies #37 – Fleegle Negotiates

Fleegle spots me getting the spray bottle of Flea Flicker out of the dog cabinet and hightails it through the dog door flaps into the backyard. I step outside through the patio doors, look about the yard, but he’s nowhere to be seen now that he’s made it to his hiding spot somewhere in the tall bamboo that lines the back fence, but I can hear him just fine.

“No way are you spraying that stuff on me. It stinks.”

“I know,” I say. “Like cloves.”

“I don’t want to smell like some bohemian college chick with her hippy cigarette.”

“I guess fleas don’t like the smell of cloves.”

“Are you questioning my hygiene? Point to any spot on me and I’ll show you I can lick it clean.”

“You’re scratching like you have fleas.”

The bamboo rustles. “That’s just food allergies. Too much kibble, not enough pizza.”

“You’re not fooling me.”

“Okay, so what if I have fleas. I love fleas. Fleas are my friends.”

Just hearing him scratch somewhere in the bamboo makes me itch. “They’re no friends of mine.”

“You need to be more accepting of others, Raud. They give me something to do when I’m in-between thoughts.”

I step inside the kitchen and return a moment later with Fleegle’s cookie jar. I shake the jar, biscuits of different sizes rattle around inside. “Okay, Fleegle, what’s it going to take?”

His face emerges from a thick cluster of bamboo. “Two,” he says. “Two big cookies. Not the Chihuahua cookies.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, reach into the jar, and take out two biscuits. “One now, and the other after.”

Fleegle crosses the lawn to me, drooling. “Shake on it,” he says.

We do and I give him the first biscuit. As he crunches away on it, I commence spraying along his back with the little pump bottle. Pump, pump, pump… He suddenly darts away. “Hey, I thought we had a deal,” I say.

“We do. It’s two cookies per pump, not the whole spray bath.” He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Now let’s see, I counted nine pumps from my neck to my tail. Looks like you owe me for eight of them.” He scratches his flank with his back leg while remaining standing. “Boy, Raud, I can feel these fleas breeding, their numbers are increasing exponentially. I think I’ll go take a nap on your bed.”

I look in the cookie jar, hoping if I have enough.

 

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