Sookie, the old bulldog, has to have canned dog food in the wake of her surgery so her mouth can recover. She absolutely loves it. She gobbles it up, and then we suffer.
Yesterday, as I was trying to catch up on a novella we are working on, because we need another release this year, Sookie was in a rare form even for her. It went somewhat like this:
The cave passage stretched in front of me, a narrow tunnel painted with bioluminescent swirls of strange vegetation. It split about twenty yards ahead, with one end of it curving to the right and the other cutting straight into the gloom.
Fart,
The pale green and pink radiance of the foreign fungi and lichens didn’t illuminate the darkness, but made it seem even deeper.
A cold draft flowed from the tunnel, bringing with it an odd acrid stench.
Fart.
Bear whined softly by my side. Whining seemed entirely appropriate. I didn’t want to go into that darkness either.
Fart.
“We don’t have a choice,” I told the dog.
Something rustled in the darkness, a strange whispering sound.
Faaaaaart!
Bear hid behind me.
“Some attack dog you are.”
Fart, fart, faaaart.
I posted about my woes on Facebook, because I wanted to share the glamor. This morning, Facebook delivered this gem to me.
We knew she was a special dog, but we had no idea that her gas troubles were high quality content. We feel so privileged to share it with you.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
My labradoodle tends to pass gas when doing that play bow which is more of a morning stretch. Front legs flat on the floor, butt in the air – you know, the inspiration for that classic “downward dog” pose. I call them her yoga farts.
very amusing story brightened my day