“Look, Raud, a stork with a baby,” Fleegle shouts from his seat on the couch where he has a view of the backyard through the den window.

A seagull carrying a Subway sandwich wrapper in its beak flies by.

“Not big enough,” I say.

A little while later, he asks, “What about them? They’re huge.”

Some ducks and geese have landed in the yard, well fed and plump from a mild winter.

“Nope, they’re not storks. Go chase them away before they poop all over the patio.”

He remains seated on the couch. “Are you sure they’re not storks? Maybe they’re in disguise.”

“Storks won’t land if ducks are in the yard.”

“Oh,” he says, then bolts through the double flaps of his dog door into the yard. “Woof, woof.”

A little later Fleegle comes inside through his dog door, a green smear on his snout.

“What’s that on your nose?” I ask.

His tongue darts out and swipes both sides of his mouth, slicking back his whiskers and getting rid of the evidence. “Nothing.”

“Why do you have that sheepish expression on your face then?”

“You told me to chase the ducks and geese away and that the storks are afraid of them, but you didn’t tell me they made such yummy treats.”

“You didn’t?”

He licks his lips again. “I did, all of them.”