Tag: short fiction

Monday morning, the thumping of Fleegle’s tail against my face wakes me. I vaguely remember flying in my dream, but it’s the dog fur in my mouth that has my attention now. It’s close enough time to the alarm clock going off that I get up and start my day, and soon Fleegle and I are on our way to our first appointment.

Fleegle watches the road closely from his co-pilot seat. He knows our work schedule based on the roads we take. “Ooo, we’re going to Little Daisy’s house. I love Little Daisy.”

“That’s right,” I say, but then get a phone call. I let it go to voice mail since I’m driving and then pull over when I can to check it. Little Daisy’s sciatica is acting up and her owner wants to reschedule for another day later in the week.

When traffic is clear, I make a u-turn and head to our next appointment, a dog we normally see on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but whose owner added an extra day this week.

“What are you doing?” Fleegle moans in near panic. “What about Little Daisy? I love her. She likes it when I groom her.”

“Change of plans.”

“That’s all you have to say, change of plans?” he says and growls, not happy with me for getting his hopes up to see Little Daisy and then letting him down, but he settles in to watching the road again. “Ooo, we’re going to Big Daisy’s house now. I love Big Daisy. She likes to wrestle.”

Big Daisy is a Newfoundland. “She sure does,” I say. Fleegle knows a lot of Daisys and Sadies and Zoës.

“But we don’t wrestle with Big Daisy until Tuesday. Is this Tuesday? What happened to Monday? Did we even have a Monday? Did your change of plans make Monday disappear? Just how long was that last nap of mine?”

Next: Negotiating with Cookies – Stuck in the Mud

Previous: Negotiating with Cookies – Fleegle World

Fleegle and I hear a bang in the distance, loud like a firecracker but with the distinctive echo of a rifle. Fleegle’s gaze darts to me as he freezes, eyes wide, body tense, ready to flee.

“Hunters,” I say. “That’s why you’re wearing that ugly orange vest, so some hunter with his beer goggles on doesn’t mistake you for a deer.”

His body relaxes as his mind makes associations. “I have a friend named Hunter.”

“Yes, you do.”

“He likes to hump me.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Are these hunters going to hump the deer?” Fleegle logic.

“Oh, look,” I say and point at the nearest tree. “Squirrel.” Human logic. When uncomfortable, obfuscate.

Next: Negotiating with Cookies – There’s Only Now

Previous: Negotiating with Cookies – Super-sized

I’m seated at my desk, testing out a new black pen on a story idea.

“What are you doing?” Fleegle asks as he ambles into the den.

“I’m writing a story about Super Fatty.”

“Who is Super Fatty? Is he an action hero like Superman?”

“He’s an American who believes if a meal can’t be super-sized it’s only an appetizer, and that all health problems can be solved with a pills advertized on television. So there’s no need for him to take care of himself, just indulge all his cravings.”

“No, I meant what are you doing putting that black stuff on that paper? It looks like tiny strands of syrup. What flavor is it? Is it licorice? Can I taste it? Put some on my nose.”

I tear the paper off my pad, frustrated with the negative tangent I’ve taken the story down. “I’ll do you one better.” I wad it up into a ball. “We can play fetch with it.” I toss it across the room.

“Licorice fetch,” he says and runs after it. When he returns and drops it in my lap, he asks, “Can we play burger fetch next?”

“Would that be regular or super-sized?”

“Tiny-sized fetch would be fine with me as long as it’s with burgers, really greasy burgers.”

Next: Negotiating with Cookies – Hunters

Previous: Negotiating with Cookies – Sabotage

I’m in the garage putting an old Triumph motorcycle back together. Fleegle comes in and gives it a sniff, then asks, “It smells like a car, but how come it only has two wheels instead of four and no seat for me?”

“It’s a motorcycle.”

“Like a bicycle with a motor?”

“Something like that.”

“So you figured out a way to make bicycles even more obnoxious?”

“I didn’t know bicycles annoyed you.”

“They have a tendency to fall over and attack the floor and anyone near them without provocation, and there’s no place for me to sit when you ride them. Now you’re making one that is the equivalent of riding a bicycle while blasting a gas powered leaf blower, and you know how I feel about leaf blowers.”

“The same as you do about lawn mowers.”

“Yes.” He puts his nose in the box holding a bunch of parts to the motorbike and comes out with a bolt in his mouth. “Is this part important?”

I took the bike apart years ago to paint the frame, so putting it back together from memory is like doing a jigsaw puzzle without the box cover to cheat from. All the bike parts are dingy and beat up, the bolt he holds is shiny and new and most likely left over from when I replaced the shocks on the car and tossed it in the nearest box.

“It’s very important,” I say. “It won’t run without it.”

“Good,” he says and heads out to the yard to bury it.

Next: Negotiating with Cookies – Super-sized

Previous: Negotiating with Cookies – Osmosis