Tag: Serial Fiction

I sit on a rock in the middle of a sea, surrounded by water for as far as I can see, without an island or a ship or even a passing seagull in sight. I’m contemplating my solitude, gazing at the water, when I notice that instead of it having the usual grayish blue tint, it’s brown and the foam on the wave caps is a Hershey’s brown. I dip my finger in the water, give it a sniff, and taste it. Yep, it’s chocolate, and this is Fleegle World. I’m relieved because now I know I’m dreaming, but apprehensive because it’s Fleegle’s dream world and you need quick reflexes in the land of Labradors.

On the distant edge of the ocean’s curvature, a protruding speck catches my attention. As the minutes pass and it gets closer, it grows to the size of a pea, then a grape, then a plum, until I recognize the amble of Fleegle walking on water, on chocolate syrup water, that it.

“You can do it too. Remember where you are,” he calls out. “Anything is possible here. All it takes is some Labrador enthusiasm.” He stops a few feet away and raises his front paw to point at my backside. “Look, you’ve sprouted a tail.”

I stand and twist around to look at my rear, and there, to my shock, a tail sticks out from the base of my spine through a specially sewn hole in my jeans. The tail is covered in thick brown fur, the mirror image of Fleegle’s.

“Now that is one nice looking tail,” Fleegle says. “I guess you’re part Labrador after all. It’s good that you are because a hairless tail might give you the look of a rodent. Not that I don’t like creatures from the rodent family, but rats and opossums have ugly tails. Are squirrels rodents? They have very pretty tails.”

I try to pull the tail loose but it’s not going anywhere. “Did you put this on me?”

“Nope, that’s all your doing. Didn’t you recently wish you were a Labrador? You did, a couple of weeks ago. You looked right at me and said, Mr. Fleegle, sir, I sure wish I was a Labrador like you, all sleek and shiny in brown fur. Well, your wish has come true, at least part of it.”

“Hmm,” I grunt, nonplussed.

“I want to show you something. Take a nibble on that rock you’re sitting on.”

I tilt my head at Fleegle, but then remember where I am and reach down for a loose piece of rock. It’s oddly soft to the touch as I pop it in my mouth. Ha, it’s chocolate. Then something startles me by thumping against my hips, one side then the other, again and again. It’s my tail and it’s slapping my sides as it wags very vigorously.

“See? You’re happy,” Fleegle says.

My startled smile turns to a big grin. “I am. I am very happy. But my tail itches.”

“Oh, lucky you, your tail came with chocolate covered fleas. You can eat those, but you have to catch your tail first.”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Chocolate Paws

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Gators

I arrive home after taking the car to the tire shop for new tires, something Fleegle had to stay home for. The guys at the shop frowned on the idea of a bouncing Lab inside the car while it was up on the jack and they were underneath it.

“Is it time yet?” Fleegle asks as I step through the door.

“Time for what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t,” I say.

“You forgot? How could you forget?”

I scratch my head. “Apparently, pretty easily.”

“I can’t believe you forgot. I’m so disappointed.”

“Tell me what it is that I forgot and I’ll try to make it up to you.”

“When you left you said we’d go see the alligators. I’ve never seen an alligator and spent the whole time you were away thinking how much fun it was going to be to see them.”

“Fleegle, I said, ‘See you later, alligator.’”

“Exactly, so can we go see them now?”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Thump Thump

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle’s Law of Attraction

I’m standing in the kitchen, contemplating which chores to do first, dishes or mopping the floor, when Fleegle pops through the dog door, his fur dripping from the rain, his paws black with mud.

Out of the blue, he asks, “How many gods do you believe in?”

“Me personally or humankind?”

“You. I don’t know this humankind guy.”

“Do you even know what God is?”

“Of course I do. He spells his name the same as dog, which we both know is no coincidence. For instance, how many guys have you known named Dick who turned out to be just that?”

“Or dogs nicknamed Stinky Butt who turn out to be stinky?”

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

“Tell that to Dick.”

“I’m just saying that there’s a good likelihood that your People God is a dog.” He paws at the ever present tennis ball on the floor next to him. “Do you believe in the Ball God?”

“Would that be as in the Stick God?”

“I think they’re brothers.”

“Does that make a game of stick ball a sort of family feud?”

“I see you don’t take me seriously and need proof of these gods. Okay, do you believe in the Mud God?”

“Oh yes, that one I do. I see proof of that god everywhere,” I say, giving Fleegle’s dirty paws a long look. “Let me ask you, do you believe in the Cat God?”

“The what? Cat and tack are spelled the same. When was the last time you sat on a tack?”

“Maybe third grade.”

“That’s because I keep the yard clear of cats.”

“So there’s no Cat God?”

“No. A minor deity at best.”

“What about a Poop God?”

Fleegle laughs. “Oh yes, he’s a fairly major god in the pantheon of dog deities. We make offerings to him every day, oftentimes several times a day, but humankind must worship him even more because you follow us around and steal our offerings and claim them as your own by wrapping them up in pretty little blue bags. But you can’t fool the Poop God. He knows from whom the offerings come.” Fleegle sits and drags his butt on the ground a couple feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a point.”

“Do you believe in the Mop God?”

“Ha. Not a lot of followers of him around here. I think the Mud God converted all of them.”

“What about the Stink God?”

“No such thing. You must mean the Scent God. Nothing truly stinks. The scent of a rose to one might be the scent of a–”

“Poop to another.”

“Yes, you got it. Personally, I find poop much more interesting smelling than a rose, unless the rose has been peed on.”

I get up to leave, now know what chores I need to do first.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To the shrine closet of the Mop God.”

“The Mud God isn’t going to like that.”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle Is Apppointed

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle Flies to the Rescue

I’m asleep, I think. I must be dreaming because I’m flying high in the sky and far below in a vast corn field is a crop circle shaped like a squirrel being chased by a dog. Uh oh, I think, I’m in Fleegle World again. This is confirmed when I look up and see the Chocolate Rockies looming ahead, a mountainous wall of brown fur with wagging tails that beat the clouds in the sky and anyone in it like whisks in a bowl of whipping cream. Last time they knocked me clear out of the dream.

Fleegle suddenly streaks out of the sky, dive bombing from the sun, and swoops passed me, then circles back and zooms up alongside me. He’s much better at flying than me. Maybe it’s his ears. They seem much bigger in Fleegle World.

“Back to give it another try?” he asks. “Not everyone can cross the Chocolate Rockies.”

“I guess so.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I can’t control what I dream.”

“You can’t?” Fleegle looks surprised. “You can’t scent smell, you can’t hear unless shouted at, you can barely see at night, and now I find out you can’t control your dreams. The more I learn about life as a two-legger, the more I realize just how limited it is to be one. Wobbling all over the place on those spindly legs. I’m surprised all of you don’t live on top of horses, now they have legs to be proud of.”

“Is this your dream or mine?” I ask.

Fleegle laughs. “Unless you want another mouthful of fur, you’re going to have to fly higher to get over the Chocolates,” he says and zooms skywards toward a distant cloud.

I attempt to follow.

“Higher, Raud, you must fly higher,” he calls down from above. “Look out for that tail.”

The air around me rumbles with thunder and turbulence as a tail the size of the Sears Tower sweeps passed me, sucking me into the vacuum of its back draft. Fleegle dive bombs me again, grabs me by the shirt collar and pulls me clear of the turbulence.

Fleegle lets go of my shirt. “What would you do without me?”

“Phew, that was close,” I say.

“But well worth it now that we’re across. Look ahead.”

We’re passed the tails and are now flying along the backs toward the heads. Each giant Lab is eagerly lapping up frothy mouthfuls from a vast ocean of muddy brown water. As we fly beyond the heads, with their tongues the size of many city blocks churning the water, Fleegle begins a slow descent.

“Just wait until you taste it,” he says excitedly.

“What’s it called?”

“The Chocolate Sea, of course.” He laughs. “And I bet you thought it was mud. You see, in Fleegle World, a dog can eat as much chocolate as he wants.”

 Next Negotiating with Cookies: Fleegle’s Gods

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: “Fleegle, Stay Still.”