Negotiating with Cookies #19 – Parmesan

“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.”

 

Next: Negotiating with Cookies #20 – Cheese for Fleegle

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Negotiating with Cookies #18 – 425 Degrees for 14 Minutes

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

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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Negotiating with Cookies #16 – Pizza

I end the call and set my phone on my desk.

Fleegle runs over and nose bumps my leg. “Pizza? You said pizza on the phone, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. I just ordered one from the take and bake.”

He runs to the door leading to the garage. “Come on, let’s go.”

I remain seated. “Hold your horses. They need to make the pizza before we go pick it up. There isn’t any rush.”

His butt leads him through a spin of a circle. “What do you mean there’s no rush?” He spins another circle. “We need to go pick it up before someone else gets it. Like someone who isn’t busy holding their horses. Who are these horses anyway? Am I going to have to share my pizza with them?”

 

Next: Negotiating with Cookies #17 – Take and Bake

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Negotiating with Cookies #15 – Sharing, Or Not

“Hey, chunky monkey, how’s it going?” I say to Fleegle as he joins me on the couch to watch television.

“I’m not as chunky as you. Look at your big couch potato belly. Pressing that remote must give you quite the workout. Changing the channel is like a hundred pound bench press for your thumb. And lifting that spoonful of ice cream all the way to your mouth, well that must be like running a marathon for your arm. Very impressive.”

“Shush, watch the show,” I say.

“The show is just there to occupy your eyes while your mouth does all the work, like your jaw on a Stairmaster. I’m on to you. Always with the chocolate.”

“How do you mean?”

Fleegle snorts his derision. “You only bought chocolate ice cream so you wouldn’t have to share with me.”

“It’s not my fault dogs can’t eat chocolate.”

“You tell me it’s bad for me every time you bring it home. What’s wrong with getting vanilla or strawberry for a change? I like vanilla and strawberry.”

“I happen to like chocolate more than vanilla and strawberry.”

“No, you happen to like not sharing.” He jumps off the couch and leaves the room, then returns with a very slimy tennis ball he was chewing on earlier and drops the filthy thing in my lap, slobber and all.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I’m teaching you by example.” He nudges the gooey mess with his nose, smearing dog spit and mud on my jeans. “I’m sharing my ball.”

 

Next: Negotiating with Cookies #16 –  Pizza

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Negotiating with Cookies #14 – Clothes

In my bedroom, I pull off my shirt and put on a different one.

Fleegle sits on the bed watching. “Why that shirt? What was wrong with the first one?”

“I don’t feel like wearing it.”

“But you feel like wearing that one, and those pants?”

“What’s wrong with these pants?”

He snorts. “Nothing.”

Now he’s got me second guessing my pants.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand what it means to wear clothes based on how you feel. If something good happens that makes you feel really happy, do you have to go home and change your clothes?”

“You could if you wanted. What do you do when you’re happy?”

“I’m always happy, that’s why I only need one suit of fur.”

 

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