Tag: Serial Fiction

I’m sitting at my desk trying to come up with story ideas when a Christmas song comes on the music stream I’ve got playing on the computer. It takes me a moment to place it because it’s an electronic version minus the vocals. It’s Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and the next thing I know I’m lost in Christmas past when Fleegle pushes through the flaps of his dog door.

He sits next to me. “Whatcha doing, Raud?”

“Taking a trip down Memory Lane.”

His tail thumps against the wall. “Oh, can I go? Is that where all the puppies live?”

“Memory Lane, not Mammary Lane. For an animal that’s supposed to have such great hearing you sure do fumble it a lot.”

He cocks his ears back. “Oh, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That’s the sound of unnecessary criticism,” he says and goes back out through his dog door.

Moments later he comes back in. “Whatcha doing, Raud?” he asks as he sits next to me.

“You just asked me that.”

“I know, but you deserve another try.”

“Well, I’ve come to the end of Memory Lane and have turned onto Apologetic Blvd. Where I’m waiting until my best friend shows up so we can go for a walk.”

His tail sweeps the floor. “Oh boy, I love walks. I’ll go get your leash.”

 

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Fleegle yells in panic and runs from the living room picture window. “Raud, the wolves have followed us home. They just passed the house. One even peed on my mailbox.”

“A taste of your own medicine, huh?” I get up from my desk and go take a look out the picture window. Two coyotes are cruising down the street at a good trot. It’s also garbage day and everyone has put their cans out on the curb for pickup. “And I thought it was the neighborhood dogs tipping over the cans.”

“Ooo, I bet that’s fun. Can we do that?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

“But the cans will be empty tomorrow.”

“Exactly.”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Memory Lane

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Timber Wolves

I’m stretched out on the psychiatrist’s red leather couch, my first appointment seeking help.

“So what seems to be bothering you?” the psychiatrist asks from behind my shoulder where he sits out of view. His voice is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it.

“It’s my dog. He’s driving me crazy.”

“Dogs can do that. But they can also mirror back to us our own troublesome issues. Like the dog who poops in the husband’s shoes when he walks allover the wife, who is the dog’s favorite. The dog is trying to teach the wife to stand up for herself. Is your dog pooping in your girlfriend’s shoes? Maybe you could be more specific? What does your dog do that drives you crazy?”

“Let me rephrase that. It’s not that he’s driving me crazy with his bad behavior, but that I think I’m going crazy because he speaks to me, just like a person does. He’ll come into the room where I am and ask me what I’m doing, like a coworker or something. And I can understand him just as I can understand you now, doctor.”

“You must be a good companion to your dog. Consider yourself lucky. A lot more people would understand their dogs if they’d only stop and listen to them.” The familiarity of the psychiatrist’s voice nags at me. “But I tell you what, Mr. Kennedy, I’m going to write you a prescription that should help you with the anxiety you’re feeling.”

“A prescription for what?” I ask.

“Chocolate, of course.”

I finally recognize the voice, sit up and look over my shoulder. Fleegle sits in the psychiatrist’s chair, legs crossed, and a prescription pad on his knee with a pen shaped like a dog biscuit held ready over the page.

I run my hand down my face. “Have I dreamt myself into Fleegle World again?”

Fleegle shakes his head. “Oh no, this is Raudy Boy World. If this were Fleegle World, that red leather couch you’re sitting on would be brown and made of chocolate sponge cake. Wouldn’t that be comfortable?” He jumps off his chair in excitement. “Ooo, but look, you kept your Labrador tail. Maybe it’s there to stay and you’ll still have it when you wake up. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Timber Wolves

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Cat World

I’m woken in the morning by Fleegle pulling the lower half of the covers off the bed and licking my feet.

“Hey, stop that.” I squirm to get me feet away from him, but he’s like white on rice, following my feet wherever I move them. “That tickles.”

“I’m cleaning them for you.”

“Huh?” I sit up, fully awake now, and look down at my feet. They’re covered in dark brown mud. I don’t remember going for a walk in the backyard last night in my bare feet, and that’s something I’d remember. Besides, the mud back there isn’t nearly as dark as what’s on my feet, and as one who lives with a dog, I’ve learned it’s best to keep my feet covered.

Maybe one of the neighbors has mud that dark. “Fleegle, did I sleep walk out the front door last night?”

“Nope, you hardly moved at all.”

“Then how’d I get mud all over my feet?”

“It’s not mud, Raud. It’s chocolate.”

“Nonsense.”

“It taste really good.” He goes for my feet again, his tongue leading the way as it flaps about.

“That explains your persistence.” I swing my feet off the bed. “And more reason for you to knock it off. Chocolate is bad for dogs.”

“Not this chocolate.” He jumps off the bed and circles back toward my feet. “This chocolate is different.”

Last night’s dream begins to filter into my consciousness. I vaguely remember sitting on a large rock of chocolate in Fleegle World. “Is this chocolate from… Is that even possible?”

“Oh yeah, why do you think I clean my feet every morning first thing when I wake up?”

“I thought it was because you had yeasty paws again and it was time to spray them with apple cider vinegar solution.”

“Vinegar and chocolate? Haven’t had it. Is it any good?”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Cat World

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