Fleegle stares at the baking pizza through the little window on the oven door. “It’s done, Raud, you can take it out now.”

“It’s not done. I just put it in.” I glance at the digital timer. “It still has twelve minutes and eight seconds, seven, six to go before it’s done baking.”

Fleegle looks skeptically at the timer. “That timer runs on batteries, doesn’t it? I don’t trust batteries.”

“It’s working. I can see the milliseconds flash by.”

“When it comes to baking pizza, milliseconds don’t flash by, they crawl, they slither, they creep, they don’t move at all. Is it done yet?”

“Thinking about it like that will only make it seem like it’s taking longer than it is. Why don’t you go outside and check for squirrels.”

“Squirrels, you said squirrels,” he says and bolts for the open patio door, but slides to a stop halfway there and looks over his shoulder at me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t start without you,” I say and glance at the timer. “You have eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds to chase squirrels.”

“If I catch one, can we have squirrel pizza?”

“Maybe on your half,” I say, hoping this won’t be the one and only time he actually catches one.

We pull into a parking spot in front of the take and bake pizza place.

Fleegle sniffs at the inch wide gap at the top of the passenger window. “I can smell it from here. I can smell pizza through brick walls. Why ever eat kibble when there’s pizza?”

“You’re drooling.” I open my door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be waiting, and drooling.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I return minutes later, saran wrapped pizza in hand. “Stay in your seat, please,” I say as I slide the pizza onto the dashboard in front of me and get behind the wheel.

Sitting next to a puddle of drool, Fleegle stares intently at the pizza as if with his gaze alone he could levitate it into his mouth. He leans toward it as far as he can, vigorously sniffing the air while barely keeping his butt on his seat.

He sees me watching him, ready to guard the pizza from his sudden attack. “What? I’m just checking for straw. I want to make sure you got the right pizza and not the horses’.”

I end the call to the take-and-bake and set my phone on my desk.

Fleegle runs over and nose bumps my leg. “Pizza? You said pizza on the phone, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

He runs to the door leading to the garage. “Come on, let’s go.”

I remain seated. “Hold your horses. They need to make the pizza before we go pick it up. There isn’t any rush.”

His butt leads him through spinning a circle. “What do you mean there’s no rush?” He spins another circle. “We need to go pick it up before someone else gets it. Like someone who isn’t busy holding their horses. Where are these horses anyway? Am I going to have to share my pizza with them?”

“Hey, chunky monkey, how’s it going?” I say to Fleegle as he joins me on the couch to watch television.

“I’m not as chunky as you,” he says. “Look at your big couch potato belly. Pressing that remote must give you quite the workout. Changing the channel is like a hundred pound bench press for your thumb. And lifting that spoonful of ice cream all the way to your mouth, well that must be like running a marathon for your arm. Very impressive.”

“Shush, watch the show.”

“The show is just there to occupy your eyes while your mouth does all the work, like your jaw is on a Stairmaster.” He sniffs the edge of the bowl. “I’m on to you.”

“How do you mean?”

“You only buy chocolate ice cream so you don’t have to share with me.”

“It’s not my fault dogs can’t eat chocolate.”

“You tell me it’s bad for me every time you fill your bowl and leave mine empty. What’s wrong with getting vanilla or strawberry for a change? I like vanilla and strawberry.”

“I happen to like chocolate more than vanilla and strawberry.”

“No, you happen to like not sharing.” He jumps off the couch and leaves the room, then returns with a very slimy tennis ball he was chewing on earlier and drops the filthy thing in my lap, globs of slobber and all.

I scrunch up my face. “What’s this?”

“I’m teaching you by example.” He nudges the gooey mess with his nose, smearing dog spit and mud across my jeans. “I’m sharing my ball.”

In my bedroom, I pull off my shirt and put on a different one.

Fleegle sits on the bed watching. “Why that shirt? What’s wrong with the first one?”

“I don’t feel like wearing it.”

“But you feel like wearing that one. And those pants?”

“What’s wrong with these pants?”

He snorts. “Nothing.”

Now he’s got me second guessing my pants.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand what it means to wear clothes based on how you feel. If something good happens that makes you feel really happy, do you have to go home and put on your happy clothes?”

“You could if you wanted. What do you do when you’re happy?”

“I’m always happy, that’s why I only have one suit of fur.”