If you live in North America and you just so happen to look outside and see a mushroom cloud, well, that’s my house. Now, before you call in the ATF or other government agencies to report possible terrorist activities, you should know that this noxious cloud was not caused by plutonium or uranium or any other radioactive substance. It was caused by something much more serious: canine flatulence.
Rufus is starting to catch up with Charley in his gas production.
With four dogs in the house, the amount of methane produced is astronomical. My household may be solely responsible for the greenhouse effect (sorry, Greenland–my dog’s gas is melting your glaciers). I don’t feed them beans, they get a probiotic with their food, but lately the increased amount of gas can be attributed to the woofer’s goat impressions. They like the spring grass, but it doesn’t like them so much.
Last night was the worst. Between their musical backsides loudly proclaiming their expulsions and the odor permeating the air, I’m surprised I didn’t asphyxiate in my sleep. I was going to light a scented candle to help mask the stench, but I was afraid of an explosion. Instead, I sprayed air freshener until my index finger was permanently bent. I sure hope they don’t use fluorocarbons in those cans anymore (if they do, sorry ozone layer).
I’m pretty sure too much exposure to noxious gas causes drain bamage bain dramage your brain not to work. According to the Environmental Protection Agency, too much methane gas displaces oxygen and, without oxygen, well, our brains start to go south. Maybe this explains a few things, like the picture above. The dogs are contributing to their own demise.
Charley has always been gassy, but even more so in his old age. I always know when he’s about to commence an air raid. He usually gets up, very quietly and quickly, and leaves the vicinity. That’s my cue to follow. There is no helping those left behind.
Rufus, the new kid on the block, has begun to give the old man a run for his money. He is a stinker, in more than one way. Rufus, though, unlike Charley, likes to wallow in his own stench. I swear he smiles when he passes gas. I should have named him “Pig Pen” what with his own personal gas cloud hovering overhead. He has no shame.
Grimm always seems perplexed whenever his derriere starts squeaking. He does quick turns to see what the heck is happening in his nether regions. Once he has figured out that the smell of death and decay is coming from his butt, he tucks his tail and hides his head in shame. I almost feel bad for the kid, except I too have to smell his stench.
Zella, God bless her, is not ladylike at all in her flatulence. She is the worst about snuggling up to you with her backside near your head. Does she have the grace to move before breaking wind? No. She just breaks your nose with her odor. Between the four of them, I’m surprised I have any sense of smell left.
Can I get a gas mask over here, please?
How have the noxious fumes not killed me? I have no idea. All I know is that I need to invest in a military spec gas mask. Anyone know of a good wholesaler? I’m gonna need more than one, I think.
Grimm's Furry Tail 
