Let me introduce you to my daughter’s pet, Pumba the Super Farting Dog. Yes, our little house guest was named after that gaseous character from The Lion King. Believe me, when that little bugger came home as a puppy he could clear the room with one of his odoriferous “Silent-but-deadlies”! We’re not overly thrilled that he continues to build on that reputation. He is especially stealthy when he sits on your lap. Nary a sound his heard before your eyes begin to water and the gag reflex kicks in.
Pumba is a very loyal pet. He remains deadly loyal to Meghan, slobbering all over her whenever they are together, despite the fact that she is away at college most of the week! But truth be told, which I am sure is true in many households across North America, “you-know-who”, has become the primary care-giver.
All of that, “I’ll walk him, I’ll feed him, I’ll trim him”, Clean up after him” crap went right out the window within the first week. “Ewwwww, that’s gross, I’m not picking up, THAT!”
You see, now that Meghan is semi out-of-the-picture, the darned dog has become my constant furry companion –full time care and feeding included. After all, I am retired, readily available, and “You’ve got a lot of time on your hands, Dad! And isn’t he so cute!”I’m thinking, “Ya, you were a cute baby, too, my devilish manipulative daughter.”
I tell you, I nearly won the battle in the first month we had the little fart. During the day when everyone is at school or work, I have my “honey-do” chore-list to keep me busy and occupied. (Apparently RETIRED =RETARDED, because I willingly bought into this spousal directed housekeeping concept.)
Well, little Pumba followed me around as if he was gum stuck to my shoe –constantly dodging my feet as I scurried about.
One day, I was busy working away and noticed that the little fur ball was not under foot.
“Pumba! Pumba! Where are you?” I called. The response was total silence.
No matter how I called –soft, demanding, pleading- the dog neither responded nor showed his little mutt face anywhere. The little bugger had completely disappeared.
“Oh, my God,” I’m thinking. “He’s trapped somewhere, suffocating! Something has fallen on him crushing his little bones. He’s escaped out the door somehow! Holy shit, Meghan is gonna kill me!”When I look up at the clock, a ticklish band of ice-water runs up my spine, because the school bus is arriving in ten minutes. My little blond tornado will be coming through the door expecting the Farting Dog to slather her with “doggie kisses”.
I panic now, thinking of the consequences and the wrath of my daughter, my wife and my son. Like a whirlwind I begin pulling out furniture, turning over tables, removing chairs and rearranging the décor.
“Pumba! Pumba!” I call, my voice squeaking like a little girl.
Still no dog-gone dog!
“Maybe he got trapped in one of the rooms,” I think. Ya, that could be it, because I keep all of the doors closed – a dog poop security measure when a puppy is involved.
Now I begin to ransack the house like an intruder; bedcovers, mats and the like are strew about as if a hurricanewind blew through the place. The clock is shouting, "5 minutes until bus time".
“Sheeeeet! Pumba! Pumba! Where the hell are you?”I’m getting to the anger stage now –beginning to shout and growl and foam at the mouth.
But wait, there is another tactic!
I run to the treat cupboard and start spreading little bacon flavored tidbits around the house like smorgasbord confetti. (For Pumba, bacon flavored treats have the same effect as drinking beer and eating beans. Flatulence of the first degree!)
Well if I can’t see him, maybe I can sniff him out like a hound dog!
But alas, despite the terrific treats, there is still no FN dog!
I’m desperate now. The last few seconds are ticking down. Then it strikes me!
“Shazzam! I need to get down to the little pup’s level. I need a doggie’s eye view.”
So I slither on down to a prone position and gradually set my aching knees on the carpet and begin to scramble about on all fours, calling, “Pumba? Pumba? Pumba,where are you?”
I can see under the furniture now; the stray puppy toys, the dust balls and the errant treats, molding to into a translucent green. I crawl through every room in the house, with my knees picking up painful rug-rash with every shuffle forward. The only place left to look is the kitchen.
By now I’m sweating profusely, covered in grime and just about at my wits end. The cool linoleum floor invites me to lie down and end my suffering. That’s just about the time I hear the squeak of school bus brakes just outside the door.
I’m done like dinner!
But, what’s that. Two little brown spheres are peering at me as they dart back and forth.
“Pumba!” I shout.
The little monkey had climbed up unto the second shelf of a small shoe rack near the back door and had hunkered down amongst the shoes. All you could see was a wet black nose and his little beady eyes. He’d obviously been afraid of the vacuum cleaner or the machinations of his beleaguered baby-sitter. I'm thinking the latter! Whatever the cause, he found his niche in the last place I would ever have thought to look.
I gathered the little pest up in my arms and hugged him closely. He greeted me with one of his best SBD’s. My eyes, of course, welled with tears from the stinging toxic fumes.
That’s just about the time the door flew open.
There stood my daughter and my wife (Sherrie had picked her up at school that day). The looks on their faces were of stunned surprise and astonishment.
With her eyes scanning the destruction like a FEMA official, my wife whispered in a voice that had business written all over it, “How can you be home all day and not notice that the house is such a mess? Didn’t you read my list?”
My daughter added, “Daddy, what have you been doing? Playing with dog all day?”
If Pumba wasn’t licking my face and cooing, I’m sure I would have throttled the pesky little mutt then and there!
So there you have it; an introduction to Pumba the Super Farting Dog.
But, ladies and gentleman there is much, much more. Stay tuned for the continuing saga of my little buddy –you won’t be disappointed.
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