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.”

As I scoop kibble into Fleegle’s bowl, he spins counter clockwise in circles, with his butt leading the way in a backwards circle.

“Keep it coming,” he says and spins another circle.

I empty the third scoopful into his bowl and tighten the lid back on the kibble container. I use a small scoop to lead him to think I’m giving him a lot more then I am.

“What are you doing? That was only two. Just because you’re dieting doesn’t mean I need to. Don’t over identify with your dog, Raud.”

“That was three scoops.”

“No it wasn’t. It was only two.”

“You can’t count and spin at the same time.”

“I can too. I can multitask better than you anytime.”

“Big words, Big Shot. Back them up.”

“I can walk and carry a stick. I can run and carry a ball, or two balls even, and sometimes three.”

I stare at him, nonplussed.

“Yeah, you can probably do those things too, huh?” he says.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Well, I can walk and poop at the same time.” He nose bumps my leg. “Ha, beat that.”

I shake my head in defeat.

“Now give me my third scoop or I’ll demonstrate.”

I’m sitting at my desk filling out next week’s dog walking schedule when Fleegle comes in from outside, sits next to me and stares.

I glance at the wall clock. “It’s not time for your dinner yet. It’s only 3:30.”

“But I’m hungry, Raud, really hungry. I think I might be starving. I bet it doesn’t take long to starve. I might waste away in a matter of minutes. Are you sure you want to take that kind of risk? It’s got to be time to eat. Even looking at your very chewable shoes makes me salivate.”

“It’s not dinner time.”

“But my stomach tells me it’s time to eat and I trust my stomach over any dumb clock on the wall. I bet that clock runs on batteries.”

“It does.” I glance at it, then look a little closer. The second hand has stopped moving. “Oops.”

“Oops is right. You can make up for it by giving me an extra scoop of kibble.”

Fleegle and I are in the car waiting for a red light to change. Riding shotgun, Fleegle lets out a very loud bark that makes me cover my ears.

“Ouch. What are you barking at?”

He stares ahead intently. “That man.”

I look where he’s looking, but see no one. “What man?”

“That man in the big hat.”

I look again. There’s a man in a cowboy hat far away in the next block. “He’s like a zillion miles away.”

“He’ll be close soon enough. You watch.”

“Why bark, why not wag? What’s so scary about him?”

“He leans to the left when he walks. No one walks like that. He’s up to something. I’m sure of it.”

The light turns green and we go. We pass the man and will never know what he’s up to.

I’m cooking my breakfast in the kitchen when Fleegle trots in from the backyard. “Feeling better, I see,” I say.

“Absolutely.”

“I bet that’s the last time you’ll be eating duck treats.”

“I’m not so sure that’s what made me sick. They were pretty tasty. It might’ve been something else,” he says, hopefully.

“What else did you eat?”

“Kibble.”

“That’s never made your stomach upset before.”

He sniffs the air by the stove where I’m cooking. “Bacon and eggs have never upset your stomach before, maybe I should have some of them.”

“Is that Labrador logic?”

“It’s the process of elimination. If I sample everything I’ll eventually find what made me sick, starting with your eggs. I’d like ketchup on mine, please.”