I had some extra cement after filling an order. It was either toss it or do something fun. This Dane is so blue he literally sheds it when I touch him. I had to stop work and go wash my hands after taking him out of the mold to stop smearing everything with blue smudges, including sculptures not intended to be blue.
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.”
That’s it, put some mayonnaise on it. No, don’t put it away, don’t be cheap, put it on with a spoon. Stop worrying about your arteries. Stress will kill you long before the mayo. What? The jar’s almost empty? Well then, use it up. Oh yeah, there you go. No, don’t put it in the sink, you idiot. Put it on the floor and I’ll get it ready for the recycle bin. I know lettuce is good for you but let’s not over-do it. Okay, I need roughage. You could play eighteen rounds with that last poop. Spray ’em white and sell ’em on eBay. Ooo pickles, I like pickles. I wonder if you could pickle a cat. Mmm, that sounds good. Let’s pickle Buttons and put him on a bun. Might have to get some more mayo though. Tomato slices work, put a few more slices on. Whoops, you dropped one. Here, I’ll get it for you. Slurp. Gosh, I don’t see it. Where’d it go? That damn cat must’ve kiped it. He’s fast for a fat bastard. He might even be enough for two sandwiches.
It needs more ham, more turkey. You might as well be a vegan for what you got on there now. You need protein, boy, lots of it. Okay, now it’s looking good, but it could use some strawberry jam and some whipped cream and some lox. Look at all that stuff you got in the fridge you could put on it. If it won’t fit on the sandwich just use the plate. Plate too small? Get a bigger plate or a serving platter.
What? That’s it?! One little sandwich on one little plate? Are you insane? You’ll starve and die and where will that leave me? I’ll end up in the pound because of your tiny sandwich. Okay, let’s go into the living room and sit down. Sure, I’ll sit next to you on the couch. What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to share? What about living your life as an example to others? I doubt Mother Teresa would do this to her dog. Dagnabbit! Give me half. I was the one who showed you how to make it. You’re such a pig.
Oh, the phone, that’s right, go answer it you greedy bastard. Slurp, gobble, slurp, lick, lick.
Sandwich? It was the cat. I warned you he’s fast. Don’t look at me. No, I’m not smacking my lips. No, that’s not mayonnaise on my nose. Lick. See, it was never there. In fact the sandwich was never there. You must be hungry. Come on into the kitchen with me. I’ll show you how to make a sandwich. I know, I get that feeling too sometimes. Déjà vu, like we’ve done all this before.
Fleegle is curled up on the den couch. “I don’t feel so good.”
“For a chocolate dog, you look mighty green. Is that grass stuck in your front teeth?” I pull it out for him. “So much for your duck treats, eh? Did you throw up?”
He nods. “By the back gate near the garbage cans.”
“Poor dog.”
“And in the flower beds.”
“Poor flowers.”
“And in your shoes by the bed.”
“Poor Raud.”
“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.”
In the backyard, I sit cross-legged on the grass, close my eyes and begin to meditate. I count my breaths and try to clear my mind, and just when mental silence sets in, a wet nose bumps me in the back of my neck.
“Whatcha doin?” Fleegle asks, circling around to my front.
“Meditating.”
“What’s that?”
“A way to make contact with my higher self.” The words are no sooner out of my mouth before my curiosity prods me to open my eyes to see if he’s staring up at the sky.
He is.
“How high up did you say he was?” Fleegle asks.
I look into the sky where he’s looking. “At this rate, very high up, maybe even beyond the stratosphere.”
“Stratosphere?” he ponders the word. “Does he look like you?”
“My higher self? In a sense, yes.”
Not seeing anything, he raises his nose high and sniffs the breeze, his snout twitching back and forth. “Well, I don’t think he’s anywhere nearby unless he smells like what the cat next door just left in little Jimmy’s sandbox. Maybe your meditation remote needs new batteries.”
“Meditation doesn’t require a remote.”
“Are you sure? You’re always saying check the batteries.”
This guy is one of my favorite pugs that I sculpted, so I was quite dissapointed when I went to finally make a cement casting, something I had neglected, I’d only made resin castings, to find that it had been damaged and was no longer usable. So I used the sculpture I have to make a new mold and now I have my cement casting.
I’m in my den reading, when Fleegle walks in. “Hello, Mr. Stinky Butt,” I say, using one of my many endearments for him.
“My butt doesn’t stink,” he says. “I can reach around and lick it. It’s always clean.”
“So that’s what that goobering sound is in the middle of the night that wakes me.”
“Yep, doesn’t stink one bit. In fact, I try to keep other dogs clean too by licking their butts. You’re the one with the stinky butt because you can’t reach yours. You want me to help you with that?”
“Um, no, but thanks. I think I’ll just continue to stink, if that’s okay with you.”
“I don’t mind, Raud, because I love you even with a stinky butt.”
Still unable to sleep, I listen to Fleegle snore. He sounds like a train struggling up a steep grade with a freight load of fat Labradors. I nudge him with my foot under the covers. “Straighten out your neck and maybe that freight you’re pulling won’t be so heavy.”
“Is the soothing rhythm of my snores not lulling you to sleep? I’m out like a light when you snore,” Fleegle says sleepily. “I love pizza, but I love it even more because it makes you snore and I know exactly where you are without even looking.”
“Pizza gives me far out dreams.”
“When I can’t sleep I don’t bother trying.”
“I know, you go outside and hunt opossums.”
“That’s not me, that’s Buck from across the street. No one has found out yet about the hole he dug under his fence. He’s a little obsessed with opossums. Did you know he takes his kills inside his house through his dog door?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I prefer chasing flies to chasing rodents.”
“What about squirrels? They’re part of the rodent family and you chase them.”
“They don’t count. They’re too cute to be rodents.”
“That’s not what you say when you make them mad and they try to poop on your head from up in the trees.”
I feel the bed move as he gets up. “Now I can’t sleep. I wish flies flew at night. Will you turn the light on and wake them up?”
I shrug. “Might as well.”
The bamboo outside the bedroom window rustles even though there isn’t any wind.
“There goes Buck, hunting,” Fleegle says. “Poor opossums.”
I snap on the light. “Poor flies.”
But then is strikes me. “How does Buck get into the yard past the fence?”
“Beats me.”
