Tag: Serial Fiction

I lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling and feeling like a real grouch. I blame stress and sleep deprivation. Why is it that when I’m exhausted and in need of sleep most, sleep eludes me like a Jack Russell terrier that has run out into the yard with a throw pillow from the couch? Fleegle is a heavy breather, always with the loud sighs, and I’ve learned to tune out most of his snoring, but tonight he’s really chugging away next to me.

I nudge him with my foot. “Fleegle, stop snoring.”

He wakes up. “What?”

“Stop Snoring.”

“I wasn’t snoring.”

“Yes, you were.”

“How can I stop snoring when I’m asleep when I do it?”

“Stretch out or something. Maybe changing your sleeping position will help.”

He gets up and repositions himself. Now his back is pressed against my hip, and soon he’s snoring again and again I nudge him awake.

“Fleegle, stop hogging the bed. You’re taking up the whole thing and I’ve got like a foot over here against the edge. I’m about to slide onto the floor. Maybe you should sleep on your dog bed on the floor.”

He looks at me pleadingly. “But Raud, I love you.”

“I’m not very lovable if I don’t get enough sleep.”

“How does it sound when I say, stop snoring, Raud? Or, don’t hog the bed, Raud? Go sleep on the couch, Raud? Well, I’m always lovable, whether I get enough sleep or not. Maybe you should lay off the coffee after lunch, Raud, and stop being such a prat.”

 

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Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Art

Fleegle jumps up on the couch next to me. “What are you looking at, Raud?”

I’m paging through the course catalog for Rock Creek Community College. “I’m thinking of taking a class.”

Fleegle wags his tail. “I’ll take you through obedience class again if you want. I had fun teaching you when to give me cookies.” He tilts his head to the side. “Now that you’ve brought it up, you could use a refresher course on cookie giving. I’m all for higher education. See if they have an intermediate obedience class for you.”

“I was thinking more of an art class.”

“Like wood carving? I can give you some pointer on that.”

“Maybe a drawing or painting class.”

“But you can already draw meaty bones that make me drool, what more is there to learn?”

“I could learn to draw them more realistically.”

A strand of drool hangs from Fleegle’s mouth. “So real we could actually eat them?”

“Um… Yes, but I can’t draw flavor.”

“That’s the class you need. Is there a flavor class in your course catalog?”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Trading Places

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Digging

I’m in the backyard digging a hole when Fleegle sees what I’m doing and runs over. “Are you looking for more buried treasure? More marinated rawhide?”

“No. I’m digging a hole for that plant.” I point at a small rhodie in its black rubber tub sitting on the grass a few feet away.

“I’ll help,” he says and jumps into the hole and starts digging.

I lean on my shovel and watch as he scoops pawfuls of dirt between his rear legs. He’s digging the hole deeper but not getting the dirt out of the hole, and without running the risk of hitting his paws with the shovel I can’t really dig.

“Fleegle, why don’t you supervise and I’ll dig?”

“Supervise? How do I do that?”

“All you need to do is sit on your backside and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“Oh, that’ll be easy.”

“Must be why it’s such a popular job.”

We trade places and I start digging.

After a moment, Fleegle clears his throat. “You’re doing it all wrong, Raud. You need to throw the dirt through your legs, not off to the side.”

When the hole is dug, I open a bag of compost and pour some into the hole.

“That smells wonderful,” Fleegle says and jumps in the hole. His eyes glaze over as he rolls onto his back and starts grinding his shoulders into the compost. “What is this stuff?”

“Compost with bat guano.”

“What’s guano mean?”

“That’s Spanish for bath time.”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Art

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Buried Treasure

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?”

 

Next Negotiating with Cookies: Buried Treasure

Previous Negotiating with Cookies: Social Media

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

“Yep.”

“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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