Fleegle – Did You Say Something?
Tag: chocolate labs
Negotiating with Cookies – Shop ‘Till You Drop
While on a walk in town among all the holiday shoppers, Fleegle says, “There sure are a lot of people carrying packages.”
“That’s because it’s the Christmas shopping season and people are filling the emotional void they feel with buying stuff for one another.”
“Like when you give me food to fill the void in my belly when I’m hungry?”
“Yes, just like that.”
Fleegle thinks on this a moment as we walk some more, then asks, “And what do they do later when they’re hungry again?”
“They return what they were given and buy something else.”
“And when they’ve finished their ‘business’ with that and are hungry again?”
“They surf eBay for impulse buys.”
“People sure do spend a lot of time on their shopping. What do they do with all the stuff?”
“If they’re lucky, they have an attic, and then after a year or so they take a carload of donations to Goodwill.”
“At least when I eat and do my ‘business’ it’s biodegradable.”
I scratch my head. “I wonder if old stuff at Goodwill is just a slower form of biodegrading.”
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Negotiating with Cookies – Werecats
While sharing the couch with Fleegle and watching television, I say, “Fleegle, you know what I envy about you?”
“Beside my cold wet nose and paws scented like Fritos, no, tell me.”
“When you worry, it’s always about something immediate, and then it passes. You never waste your time worrying about tomorrow.”
“I can’t worry about something that doesn’t exist. I don’t worry about werecats, do I?”
“Like werewolves, but cats?”
“Yeah, because they don’t exist, just like tomorrow doesn’t exist until it gets here. And what’s the point worrying about the now? It’s much easier to deal with the now than worry about it. Maybe you just like to worry.” He rolls onto his back. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
“Sleep tight, don’t let the werecats bite.”
Fleegle looks at me, then hops off the couch. As he heads toward the bedroom, he says, “I’m going to nap on your pillow. It soaks up drool better than mine.”
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Negotiating with Cookies – Chowder
As I pour hot water into my tea mug, Fleegle drops his rawhide chew flip into his water bowl.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He stares at the rawhide soaking in the water. “Letting it steep for 3 to 5 minutes.”
“Like my tea.”
“Oh, but much better than your tea. That’s like comparing thin broth to chowder.”
A little while later I’m in the den with my mug of tea on the table next to my chair, when Fleegle walks in and drops his gooey half chewed rawhide into my mug.
He looks at me and wags his tail. “Here, give it a try. You’ll love it.”
I look at him nonplussed.
“Ah, poor Raud, you must be on a diet,” he says and scoops his rawhide out of my mug with his tongue. “Mmm, I taste honey.”
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Negotiating with Cookies – Eggs Benedict
I finish pushing the reel mower around the backyard lawn and go inside for a glass of water to wash down the pollen where I find Fleegle in the kitchen sitting in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open and a strange blue glow on his face.
“What the cat, Fleegle? Close the fridge door. You’re letting all the cold air out.”
He doesn’t budge. “But then I won’t be able to see it.”
“See what? The egg?”
“No, the ham.” He wags his tail. “Are you ready for your sandwich yet?’
“It’s only 10:30 and I had a big bowl of oatmeal for breakfast.”
“I know, it was tasty.”
I step over to close the fridge door, but stop. “Does it look bigger to you?”
“The ham?”
“No, the egg.”
“Maybe, but the ham definitely looks smaller. If you were smart you’d go buy a new light bulb for the fridge and give that crazy egg thingy to Timber Jack. I bet his jaws can crush anything.”
“You’re probably right, but we need to see this through. Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“Not as much as I want to avoid another encounter with crazy space chickens.”
“Oh Fleegle, you worry too much.
* * *
In the middle of the night I’m woken by a cold wet nose in my face. “Raud, wake up. It’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“Your reckoning. Listen.”
I hear the muffled sounds of something thrashing about coming from the direction of the kitchen.
Fleegle jumps off the bed. “You better bring that bat you keep by the bed.”
I glance at it as I slip my feet into my slippers, then grab it and follow the noise to the kitchen.
Fleegle cocks his ears. “It’s coming from inside the fridge.”
As I open the fridge door, the sound stops, and all looks normal inside, bathed in a pink glow of a Key West sunset.
“It’s gone,” Fleegle says.
“No, it’s not,” I say and point at the egg.
“Not the egg, the ham.” His hackles go up and he growls. “And the egg looks definitely bigger.”
I flick on the kitchen light. “And so does your belly.”
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Negotiating with Cookies – The Egg
While I’m brewing a cup of tea in the kitchen, Fleegle comes in from the patio with something muddy in his mouth.
“Why don’t you leave that gooky ball outside?”
He mouths around it, “It’s not a ball, Raud, it’s something else.”
“What then?”
He sets it on the floor. “I don’t know. I found it in the earth.”
It’s smaller than one of his tennis balls and shaped like an egg. I pick it up and rinse it off in the sink. “It’s blue, the sky blue of July.” I weigh it in my hand. “It’s too heavy to be an egg.”
“If it were an egg I would’ve eaten it.”
“Don’t let George hear you say that.”
“He’s mad at me.”
“Did you eat all his Chickie Puffs again?”
“You try eating just one.”
“That’s a dangerous advertizing meme you’re repeating started by the potato chip companies.” I look down at the egg thingy in my hand, which is now pink, the rose pink of sunset.
Fleegle tilts his head to the side. “I thought you said it was blue.”
I look at him. “It was blue, now it’s pink.”
“No, now it’s yellow.”
“The yellow of a ripe lemon.”
“Yuck, I hate lemons. Give it to me and I’ll go put it back in the ground.”
“But you like lemon scones.”
“Scones are biscuits.”
“Why don’t you show me where you found it.”
I follow Fleegle into the backyard toward the fence at the property line and into the bamboo to a hole he’s dug.
“I found it in that hole,” he says.
“What made you dig there?”
“It smelled funny, like that egg thingy smells funny. Let’s bury it and leave it alone.”
“But what if it’s an egg left by those crazy space chickens?”
“The ones Timber Jack and his date ate? The Master Race of chickendom?”
“Yeah, those chickens.”
“Then drop it in a food bowl and put it out with the garbage cans on garbage day. Let Timber Jack finish what he started. We can watch from the picture window, nice and safe on the living room couch.”
In the dark of the bamboo the egg thingy gives off a lot of light. “I’ve got a better idea. The fridge bulb burnt out this morning, let’s use this instead.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“You’ve been watching too much Star Wars.”
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Gnawing the Bone 