I gather up an armful of tired looking toys and pass Fleegle in the kitchen on my way to the garage.
“Where are you going with all my toys?” he asks.
“We’re having a garage sale.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You’re going to sell my toys?”
“They’ve been sitting untouched in your toy basket for so long I figured you were bored with them.”
He follows me out to the garage, but now he’s carrying something in his mouth and it’s not a toy. “What have you got there?”
“Your remote to the television,” he slurs around the hard plastic. “It’s your donation to the garage sale. Think of it as going on a diet for the mind and you’re cutting out visual junk food.”
I do a 180 and return the armful of toys to his basket and he drops the remote back on the coffee table. Détente is established.
Back in the kitchen, he grabs his crate by its door and starts dragging it toward the garage.
“What are you up to now?” I ask.
“I’m going to sell my crate at your garage sale.”