Read Online Fleabrain Loves Franny by Joanne Rocklin - Free Book Online Page B

Shakespeare.”
    â€œMy full name is Francine,” Franny said. “But everyone calls me Franny.”
    â€œI am not everyone,” Fleabrain said. “For that reason, I’ll call you Francine. Even lovelier.”
    â€œBut how do I know you’re real?” Franny asked.
    Fleabrain crossed several of his six legs and leaned back comfortably upon his hair hammock. “Oh, Francine, I have so longed for a conversation such as this with you! As the French philosopher René Descartes, born March 31, 1596, died February 11, 1650, has written, ‘
Je pense, donc je suis’
!”
    â€œI don’t speak French,” Franny said. “I think we’ve discussed this before.”
    â€œRight,” said Fleabrain. “My sincerest apologies. Bug it! My memory is usually as sharp as a bee’s stinger, but I suppose I’m in quite a tizzy, meeting you for the first time. ‘
Je pense, donc je suis.’
Translation: ‘I think, therefore I am.’ I also expound, argue, sing a cappella, compose an elegy, recite an ode, and solve algebraic equations. As well as jump incredibly high and drink blood. Therefore, I am.”
    â€œWell, I’m glad
you
know you’re real,” said Franny crossly. It was 2:15 A.M., and her head hurt. “But how do
I
know you are?”
    â€œOh, bug it. I suspected you’d ask that. I hate to do this to you, but—”
    Fleabrain leaped gracefully from Alf’s hair onto Franny’s arm. Six small bites and the job was done—bites on Franny’s arm in the shape of a tiny
F
, an exact replica of Fleabrain’s distinctive signature.
    â€œI can do the
B
for
Brain
if you need more convincing,” he said,jumping back into his hair nest. “I’m sure you recognize the penmanship. Or ‘mouthmanship,’ as it were.”
    Fleabrain laughed, then stopped abruptly in mid-giggle.
    â€œDon’t worry, Francine. I used one of my gentlest venoms. The bites shouldn’t itch for long, but they will still be there as proof at daybreak, before they fade away in a day or two.”
    â€œThat’s OK,” Franny said. “I just needed to be sure.”
    â€œAnd don’t worry about Alf. I only need a repast from my host every fortnight to stay alive these days. Sometimes less. I seem to be getting most of my nourishment from books. Much more fulfilling, not to mention slimming.”
    As if on cue, Alf jumped from the bed to scratch his left hind leg vigorously with his right one.
    â€œThis week’s supper,” explained Fleabrain. “Dogs don’t really mind a mild itch, as long as they can reach it to scratch. Did you ever watch a dog scratch an itch? I mean,
really
watch? They smile as they do it!”
    â€œThat’s true,” said Franny, smiling herself.
    â€œI must say, I’ve grown quite fond of Alf,” said Fleabrain. “I’m learning to appreciate his generosity, and his pragmatic, down-to-earth attitude toward life. And, of course, the friend of my friend is my friend, to paraphrase the ancient proverb ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ There is some quibbling as to whether that proverb is of Arab or Chinese or Indian provenance, although all cultures eventually discover similar truths, I have learned. In any case, I do prefer my paraphrase. The dog and I are pals.”
    â€œI’m really glad about that,” Franny said.
    Fleabrain’s charming personality radiated fellowship and kindness. These qualities made him handsome to Franny—maybe not by Hollywood standards, but who cared about that? And not having met many—or, in fact, any—other fleas up close, Franny couldn’t compare him to his peers. But something told her he’d taken some pains with his appearance. The burnished, overlapping plates on his body shone, and the many hairs on his back seemed combed carefully into place.
    â€œI have to admit, I