Day 3.

A fervent plea to the Person In Charge Of Flatulent Dogs.
c.c. Minister of The Environment


Dear Person In Charge of Farting Fluffing Dogs That Pass Gas Wind,


It has now been 3 days and nights since my doggy started passing gas and she still hasn't stopped. 


Her Dr Dog says he's never heard of little blue pills making dogs fart before. And, as you know, we're very careful with what passes though her whiskered lips [though The Cushion did very misguidedly give her one [1] small dried lamb ear over the weekend]. It could be something she picked up at the park, but surely that's no fault of ours and the people who threw the rubbish there should be the ones made to suffer and not us. I'm sure you see the injustice of it all.


After having driven me to hide in the study on Sunday night, my doggy was kind enough to sleep downstairs on Monday night. Last night, we cleverly closed the bedroom door early so she couldn't get in! But she waited patiently in the guest room next door for more than 2 hours and when I opened the door, just a crack mind you, she pushed me aside to get in. 


What was I supposed to do, Person In Charge? She's been so down lately, not herself really, I couldn't break her little determined heart.


There are now black suitcases under my eyes and I fear the fragrance hanging around my doggy's bottom and our hair can never be shampooed away. 

"OMG! What is that pong? Didn't you have a shower tonight, Typist?"

Please oh please, Person In Charge, I beg of you! Help whatever is in my doggy's gut finish putrifying today and get dumped in the park [and picked up of course] so that we may all get some sleep tonight and not catch pneumonia. 

Your divine intervention is all we can hope for now. [That, and Flagyl if it still hasn't cleared up by tomorrow.]

I thank you in advance and from the bottom of my anxious heart. Your supplicant who is turning blue in the face, 


The Typist.


P.S. I am copying this to the Minister of Environment just in case he's interested in studying this [unfortunately] renewable source of energy.

A short story [about passing gas].

Thank you to The Queen of Bermtopia for my delightful new title.

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Georgia's been farting since shortly after dinner yesterday evening. 


I admit, I was very thankful when she decided to sleep downstairs in the lounge room last night. But the smell was so bad [a gross understatement], it drifted upstairs. Even separated by a staircase, it was gag worthy. 


It was precisely 12.03 by the bedside clock when the smell woke me up.


Then [very sadly], at around 1, our dog decided to join us in the bedroom. She came to politely ask me to put on her jammie, then plonked herself on her bed at the foot of ours and was snoring in under 5 minutes. I didn't have the heart to chase her back downstairs, not that it would have made any difference I suppose. 


Shortly after, a frightful wall of smell hit me. Even The Other Half woke up. [To give you an idea of how remarkable this is, we're talking about a man who once turned over and fell back to sleep when I told him there was a burglar outside our bedroom window.] 


We had to open the windows and turn on the fan. This would be okay except it's winter and 7 degrees outside.

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I've finally given up trying to sleep in a cold smelly bedroom and am now hiding downstairs in the study. I've opened more windows to air the house, and lit an incense stick [which doesn't seem to be making a dent in the air quality]. I have a feeling today is a goner. Might as well go make some coffee.


Thanks Georgia, for an unforgettable birthday present.

My Cushion screws up, the air bed goes pop! and other bad stuff.

Okay, so I can't really these days but no one needs to know that, right?

My air bed is dead. My Cushion decided it was too soft and he pumped and pumped the bed up until the stitches popped. Pop! pop! pop! the stitches went, scaring My Typist half to death because she was on it when it happened. 

My Cushion really screwed up. The air bed had to be thrown away. 


But that's not the worst of it.

*

Remember how Dr Dog said I was supposed to go only on short leash walks for 2 weeks? 


Well, My Cushion felt sorry for me so he let me off the leash in the park yesterday and I ran and ran. I couldn't help it! It's been a week since I played with my friends and I! am! going! MAd! 


Then I climbed up these steps.

This is a re-enactment. These pictures were taken some time back. My Typist put them here to make My Cushion feel bad. She knew they'd come in handy one day.

 "What is wrong with you?!" The Typist screamed at My Cushion when she heard about our short easy walk that wouldn't stress my neck and legs. 


I guess he screwed up again.


But that's not the worst of it.

*

My legs have started to itch. I think some ants got into them! I can't stop licking and chewing my toes. They've gone all gummy and red. 

The Typist gave me a medicated bath and I've been getting a little blue pill every morning. She's been hosing down my belly and legs, and rubbing an ointment between my toes but nothing seems to help. [She called Dr Dog this morning too, and left a hysterical message.]


Last night, I tried to eat my front right paw. The Typist couldn't bear it any more, so she made me wear a sock.

"Couldn't you at least have tried to find me a prettier sock, Typist? Something a little more colour coordinated perhaps?"

But that's not the worst of it.

*

I, of course, refused to wear an ugly sock and skipped about until it came off. The Typist kept pulling the sock back on and I kept pulling it off. Haha! I thought I made it quite clear who was boss around the house, and that would be the end of that!


And then.

I couldn't believe my eyes. It was The Horrible Thing! Bad memories came flooding back! 

I ran and cowered in a corner and looked as pitiful as I could [which, as you know, usually does the trick]. It was My Pushover Cushion so I thought I had a particularly good chance of getting away with it.

But it was no use.

"Waa..aaaaa..ah...hh!h!!!..."

*

I kept knocking into everything. I didn't dare move. 

I couldn't even go up to bed. It was ridiculous! [I might write a stiff letter of complaint to the SPCA about whoever invented this death trap.]

Finally, The Typist had to take The Horrible Thing off just so I could go upstairs.

"You know, Typist, in retrospect, that sock wasn't so bad after all. How about we give it another try?"

"No? Really? No?"

I can tell you no one got any sleep last night because The Horrible Thing kept knocking into the bed and scraping the floor and making horrible noises.

*

So here I am, back on my inferior quality old lumpy bed, not allowed to play for yet another week, with itchy gummy legs and toes, and A Horrible Thing on my head.

I think I may really have screwed up this time.

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So how's YOUR week going?