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?”