The Wrestlers
Tag: labrador retriever
Nails
Fleegle and Franny lay in the grass in the backyard licking the sides of their front paws obsessively.
When they notice me watching, Fleegle raises his head and says forlornly, “Raud, someone stole our dewclaws.”
They were removed when he was a puppy. “Don’t look at me. You showed up with four toed paws.”
He looks at where his dewclaws should be. “The dogs at the park have five toes on their paws. Where are our fifth toes?”
Franny looks up from her paw-goobering. “Yeah, we want them back.”
“You’ll have to talk to your matchmaker breeder about that,” I say.
“You mean Suzie has our toes? What, like in a drawer someplace?” Fleegle asks.
Franny tilts her head to the side. “Yuck, what if my toes get mixed up with Fleegle’s? I don’t want brown toes.”
Fleegle stands up. “We need to go to Eugene and get our toes back, Raud.”
Franny stands up too. “Yeah we do. Let’s go.”
I clear my throat, preparing to make a stand. “That reminds me. You’ve both been making a lot of clickity clack sounds when you walk on the wood floors. It must be time to trim the nails you do have.”
Fleegle starts to slink across the lawn toward the bamboo. “My nails are just fine. No trimming needed here.”
“But what about going to Eugene and retrieving your dew claws?” I ask. “They’ll need to be trimmed too.”
“Another time. I’ve got things to do,” he says and disappears into the bamboo.
“How about you, Franny? Are you ready for your nails to be trimmed?”
“You’re not trimming mine. Long nails are all the rage right now at the park. Did you pick up the pink polish I asked for?”
“I’m not going to paint your nails.”
“But I’ll paint yours if you do.”
Next Bartering with Biscuits – Mr. Pillow
Previous Bartering with Biscuits – Princess
First Bartering with Biscuits – The Puppy
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The Princess
I find a sunny spot in the backyard, line up my chair to make the most of the fall sun, and sit down to attempt some writing in my notepad. I open it to a fresh page, click the tab on my pen a few times, and wait for something to surface to inspire me.
It isn’t long before Fleegle emerges from the bamboo and is staring alongside me at the blank page too, and soon he is followed by his blond shadow, Franny.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
“Shush,” Fleegle says. “Raud might have writer’s block.”
“What’s writer’s block?”
“It’s when Raud can’t think of anything to write about.”
“Is that because his coconut brain is hollow?”
Fleegle pushes her away by shoving his butt in her direction. He nose bumps my notepad. “Maybe if you drew some meaty bones it might help get the ink flowing.”
I click the tab on my pen a few more times and look at Fleegle and Franny. “I didn’t think I had writer’s block until you two brought it up.”
“Ah, that’s the power of suggestion at work,” Fleegle says. “Now back to drawing those meaty bones.”
Franny pokes her head in. “Did you say he needed suggestions? Get your pen ready, Raud. I’m not too sure what writer’s block is but I’m pretty sure I don’t have it. I can tell you all sorts of things to write.”
“Back off, Franny, Raud’s going to draw me some bones.”
“No he’s not. He’s going to write down my story. Let me begin. Once upon a time there was a dog named Franny and she was the prettiest princess in the land. She had a super obedient servant named Fleegle who did everything she told him to do.”
“Hey, I’m not your servant.” Fleegle sees me writing and whines, “Raud, don’t write down what she says, we have bones to draw.”
Franny looks down her nose at me. “Read what you have so far, scribe.”
I look at the page. “Once upon a time there was a dog named Franny and she was the stinkiest dog on the block because her big friend Fleegle showed her where all the coyote poop was.”
Franny snorts her derision. “You left out ‘Princess’.”
Next Bartering with Biscuits – Nails
Previous Bartering with Biscuits – Dirt
First Bartering with Biscuits – The Puppy
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Sharing the Canine Way
“Are you going to eat all of that?” Fleegle asks as I bite into my sandwich.
Franny drools at his side. “Yea, that’s a lot of sandwich for one dog.”
“I’m not a dog,” I slur around my mouthful of sandwich.
“You sure smell like one,” Franny says.
“And I wonder why that is,” I say. “Living with two shedders.”
“We’re getting off topic,” Fleegle says, also drooling. “Back to the subject at hand. Are you sure you’re going to eat all of that sandwich?”
I nod as I chew.
Fleegle shakes his head with disappointment. “Didn’t they teach you to share when you were little?”
Franny cocks her head to the side. “He used to be little?”
“He claims he was once long ago.”
“If he was little we could just take that sandwich away from him,” she says. “Teach him to share the canine way.”
Fleegle tilts his head at her. “But that’s not how I taught you to share.”
“It isn’t? I take your sticks from you all of the time. Isn’t that you sharing?”
“I drop the sticks to stop you from biting my back leg.”
“Oh, and I thought you were sharing.”
Next Bartering with Biscuits – Dirt
Previous Bartering with Biscuits – How Honest Can a Butt Wiggle Be?
First Bartering with Biscuits – The Puppy
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Fleegle’s Bed
Franny holds her ground on the bed and growls down at Fleegle who is trying to jump past her up onto the bed. “Poor Biscuit Breath,” she says and wags her tail. “You have to sleep on the floor tonight.”
“But my bed is up there on the pillow next to Raud’s pillow.”
“Not anymore. That’s my pillow now.”
“But I’ve slept on that pillow since I was a puppy.”
“How’s that cold hard floor feel? You should have enough biscuit padding on your backside to be more than comfortable, walnut brain.”
* * *
Fleegle whimpers so loudly on the pillow next to mine that he wakes me. I pat his side and say quietly, “Fleegle, wake up.”
He stops whimpering, raises his head and looks around at his surroundings. Seeing where he is, he drops his head back on his pillow with a loud sigh. “Oh thank goodness. I was having the worst nightmare. Have I told you how much I love my pillow?”
Next BwB – How Honest Can a Butt Wiggle Be?
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17 – Invasion
“Someone is on the roof,” Franny says to Fleegle in the dark of the bedroom. “Should we wake him?”
I look at their black silhouettes on the bed and listen to the silence. “No one is on the roof,” I say.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Franny says. “You need to go up on the roof.”
The clock glows 3am. “I’m not going up on the roof in the middle of the night.”
“Do you want me to get your slippers?” Franny asks.
Fleegle shakes his head. “He’ll need his shoes for going up the ladder.”
I pull the pillow over my head. “I’m not getting out of bed.”
Fleegle cocks his head to the side. “No, she’s right, Raud. Someone is on the roof. It must be Santa. Have you bought that heavy German beer he requested last year? Remember he said he was lactose intolerant after drinking milk for so many years.”
“It’s far too early in the season for Santa,” I say.
“But he’s been all over the grocery store. So has his buddy, Frosty the Snowman,” Fleegle says.
Franny stands up, her stance a little anxious. “Who is this Santa guy and why is he on our roof? What’s so special about the roof anyway? Is there something up there to eat that no one has told me about? Is that where Fleegle hides the caviar?”
“Nothing is on the roof. Go back to sleep.”
“You’ll be lucky if it’s Santa,” Fleegle says. “He might be able to help you with your gnome problem.”
“I don’t have a gnome problem, I have a sleep deprivation problem.”
“That’s what they all say just before it’s too late.”
I know I shouldn’t give credence to his theories by asking but I can’t help myself. Any insight into Fleegle’s thinking is always worth it. “Who is they?”
“People with gnome problems. Maybe Santa can broker a truth before the gnome’s relatives arrive and the conflict escalates.”
I push my pillow aside. “Relatives?”
“It’s probably already too late. There are several new RVs in the neighborhood. I think the gnome is already massing his forces.”
“An invasion of gnomes in RVs? Are there magic mushrooms growing in your yard, Fleegle?”
“What’s an RV?” Franny asks. “Is that where the caviar is hidden?”
“Go back to sleep, you two.”
Franny lies back down and soon both of them are snoring quietly. I lie there and stare at the ceiling. The clock now glows 3:12. It’s then that I hear it, the rapid patter of feet, like a child running in the attic. And then I hear it again, but this time it’s several children racing one another the length of the attic from one end of the house to the other.
Crap, I hope it’s not raccoons, I think and roll over.
Previous chapter – How To Become a Coyote
Gnawing the Bone 