Blame the Dog? Heck yeah.

(Warning:  Contains potty humor)

There are few things better in life than my loyal dog, asleep on her bed at my side.

And almost nothing is worse than her deathly gas clouds wafting over our faces while we drift off to sleep (or at least TRY to).

I try to feel empathy for her intestinal woes and be patient.

I try to breathe with one long exhale, in hopes that the cloud will disperse and breathable air will return in time for the inhale.  But that’s one Big cloud.

The thought crosses our minds at the same time – is someone trying the “Blame the dog” game?  Should I smack my husband?  Is he about to mistakenly smack me?

But no.  Although my pup, like all dogs, has no fleshy cheeks that rumble and flap with the passing of gas and usually are of the silent-but-deadly type, these gaseous utterances have a slight sound at the beginning and end - much like a capital letter and a punctuation mark on a sentence.  Definitely coming from the dog’s exposed brown star.

I peek over the edge of the bed and see that she is as disgusted as the rest of us.  With the squeak of another eruption, her head pops up and she looks toward her tail, nose twitching.  “Dang…” I almost hear her grumble.  “What died in me?”

I turn away from her side of the bed and try to build a protective cave of blankets around my face, which works well enough to doze off for a while.

Just two hours later, I hear my beloved dog whimpering to get outside.  She’s a good sleeper so I know what’s going on.  As I shuffle across the dark bedroom floor toward the door, I’m hoping that whatever is knocking on her back door will ease her intestinal pain, and our own discomfort.

At last, Goodnight.