We have an old, flatulent dog. She glories in the slip of deadly methane from her bum. Considering her special diet, extremely limited treats, and hardly any table food, I don’t know how the horrid fumes originate. Yesterday, I was sitting on the floor reading with my little son when the dog walked by. I looked up in sudden shock and horror. This was not your usual gas blast.
“Son! Did you toot?”
I did not believe him. I checked his pants to make sure he had not dropped a load of goods in there. Once he was deemed free and clear, I went to examine the dog. Had she rolled in a dead critter in the backyard? No, but trailing her lightly now was a sample of something the Nazis once would have bottled and used at war. I hoped this was a one time deal, but minutes later, my step-daughter cried out the dog’s name from the other room.
Oh, yes. Gas is a blast-- especially when the one to blame actually is the dog. She is asleep near my feet as I write, but every so often, a fetid breeze washes my way. I think my tear ducts are actually disintegrating.