Negotiating with Cookies – Buried Treasure

I haven’t seen or heard Fleegle for a while so I go in search of him. After I establish he’s not in the house, I step out in the backyard and look around. Nothing, but I can hear pawfuls of dirt being thrown against the side of the shed behind the timber bamboo. Fleegle is digging, and lucky for the lawn he’s digging in his designated digging area, tucked behind the bamboo by the shed, where I secretly bury treats and rawhide chews for him to find.

I call out, “Have you found any buried treasure?”

“Only garbage, nothing tasty or chewy,” he says as he emerges from the bamboo dragging a muddy green garbage bag. “Would you take this away? It’s in the way of my digging.”

I take the bag. It’s heavy with something solid in it. I’m going to drop it straight in the wheelie bin but my curiosity gets the better of me. “Lets see what’s in it.”

“Ooo, you’re going through the trash. I thought we weren’t supposed to do that.”

“This is different.”

“Why? Because you’re doing it and not me? I sense a double standard here.”

“Alright, then you open it.”

Fleegle tears into the side of the bag, shoves his snout in and comes out with a mouthful of moldy cash. “Taste like mildew,” he says as he spits it out and turns disappointedly back to his diggings. “I’m going to keep at it. I’m sure I’ll find something good eventually.”

I look inside the bag. It’s full of old twenty dollar bills bundled with fat rubber bands. All I can think is the house’s previous tenant grew weed in the garage behind a fake rear wall and also up in the attic, back when it was still illegal, and maybe the use of his own product affected his memory.

“Ooo, ooo,” Fleegle barks. “I found something. It’s rawhide. I just love rawhide chews that have been marinating in mud juice overnight. They get all soft like edible rubber.”


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Negotiating with Cookies – On the Trail of…

Fleegle sniffs the base of a shrub, lifts his leg on it, then sniffs a nearby dog dropping and lifts, followed by pawing at the dirt, more sniffing and leg lifting. He claims he’s tracking a new girl dog in the neighborhood, but I’ve yet to see her and for me seeing is believing, not sniffing.

“You’re looking for love in all the wrong places, Fleegle,” I say as we continue our walk in the neighborhood.

“How would you know with that tiny nose of yours? She’s been through here recently, I can smell her. I bet she’s pretty.”

I point at the ground where he just sniffed. “You can tell she’s pretty from dirt?”

“I can tell she eats well, but she has a hanger on that follows her around and tries to cover up her scent with his own. Well, I’m taking care of that.” He lifts his leg on another spot, then he catches scent of something and starts pulling me by the leash down the block. “Hurry up, Raud, move those skinny legs of yours.”

We rush down the block ten yards, then he stops to sniff, then we rush down the block some more and he stops to sniff again. Our entire walk is like this, rush, stop and sniff, rush some more.

When we get back to the house, I ask, “Could that ‘hanger on’ be you from yesterday? Could you be going around peeing on her scent, then going around again today and peeing on your own scent from yesterday thinking it belongs to the ‘hanger on’?”

“No way, that’s crazy thinking,” he says, but I can tell the idea disturbs him when he pees on a nearby rock and says, “Now that’ll be tomorrow’s control scent. Remind me to give it a good sniff before we head out on our walk.”

I hide the spare house key under the rock he just peed on. “Sure thing, Fleegle.”

“Whoever that hanger on is, he sure eats a lot of pizza,” Fleegle says as we go inside.

“Are you absolutely sure it’s not you?” I ask one last time.

He looks at me like I’m up to something. “It could be you. You eat a lot of pizza, far more than me since you eat the center and I only get the skinny edge,” he says. “Have you gone all environmental and stopped peeing in your water bowl and started going outside like a normal animal?”


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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Social Media

Negotiating with Cookies – Social Media

Today is the day during the garbage pick-up cycle where unwanted electronic hardware like printers and computers can be left out on the curb and Waste Management will cart them away.

While on our walk, Fleegle stops to sniff the tower of an old desktop computer, and before I know it, he’s lifted his leg on it.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I say.

“Updating your Facebook page.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Do you want me to Tweet something for you too? Tell the world you just stubbed your toe?”


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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle Solves It

Negotiating with Cookies – Fleegle Solves It

“Ooo, Raud, are you drawing again?” Fleegle asks, breathing over my shoulder.


“What is that? It looks like my dog door.”

“It’s a square.” I add a few more lines and turn it into a cube. “Now it’s a block.”

“Oh, you have writer’s block again, huh?”

I nod.

“You should use that big pink eraser you’ve got there and erase that block, then draw me another big meaty bone.”


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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Poetry

Negotiating with Cookies – Poetry

“Ooo, this is good tasting grass,” Fleegle says between bites as he grazes on the fresh spring growth. After he’s had his fill, he lifts his leg on the nearest upright object, a rhododendron shrub, and takes one of the longest pees ever.

“Fleegle, haven’t you peed on that rhodie enough? You’re going to kill it if you don’t spread your wiz around.”

“Hey, I’m writing a poem. It may not be the best poem ever, but it’s not that bad.”

“And what’s your poem about?”

“It’s a love poem to grass. In my next life I want to be born a cow. I’ll stand around all day and do nothing but graze in the fields.”


Next Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle Solves It

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Midlife

Negotiating with Cookies – Dog Park

Fleegle walks up to where I’m standing at the dog park, grumbling about something. “Petulant, spoiled, entitled, immature, arrogant, narcissistic, twit,” Fleegle says, rubbing his paw on his nose.

“Who are you talking about?” I ask.

“That poodle over there that bit me.”

“Where’d you learn all those words?”

“I’m just repeating what you said about the poodle’s owner when she cut you off in the parking lot in her shiny car.”


“You know how Labradors are called Labs for short? Are poodles called poo?”

“When they bite you they are,” I say.

“Or cut you off,” Fleegle says.


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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Taste Like Chicken