The Dog-Owner's Plight - Canine Flatulence

Those of us who own dogs - especially larger ones - know the perils of canine flatulence. Usually of the SBD type, they are an unsuspected affront to a person's tender olfactories, often coming at the most inopportune times. In the middle of a meal, say, or perhaps at the start of an amorous encounter. Their timing? Impeccable. Their ability to clear a room? Indisputed.

In other words, we should know better. Yet we still persist in allowing them to live with us, side-by-side, on our couches, in our beds. Tales, myths and legends on this topic abound. This is one such story.

One recent early morn, in that quiet hour when silence lays over the land like a heavy cloak, I was abed deep in slumber. Claire, our boxer, nestled in her bean-like shape between us in the vast expanse of our king-sized bed. Somehow at the same time curled into the tightest little dog-ball possible yet taking up nearly the entire surface of the mattress.

During the night, she had managed to shift around so her hindquarters were mere inches from my face. Literally so close that her fine, short hairs should have been tickling my broad pate. Unaware of such danger, I dreamed on, head filled with visions of myself scoring game-winning soccer goals, nubile yet nebulous female forms and deep dish pizza. That blissful slumber was soon to be interrupted however, by a sound nearly as quiet of that of a small mouse scurrying across a kitchen carpet.

***psssssssssst***

From the deepest reaches of REM sleep to the equivalent of being slapped awake by a rotten herring, my head snapped back so hard I heard vertebrae pop. So quick and violent was my reaction that the back of my head struck the headboard with a BANG! The stench. Oh my god. Oh. My. God.

It was awful and at the same time awe inspiring. It was as if someone had put my face in front of the tailpipe of a spavined 1971 Buick with a 442, having poured rancid beef gravy directly into the four-barrel carb and gunned the engine. My nose hairs, trimmed and manscaped as they are, curled into tight circles like fiddlehead ferns just before turning to fine ash.

Spasming with effort to extract myself from the blankets to get as far away - as far, far away - as I possibly could from the viscous black cloud spreading from the general area of the dog's rump, I was entangled, hips to feet. I tumbled from the bed to the floor, still wrapped in linens. I immediately began dragging myself to the bathroom door, the entire time gagging, holding back the previous night's dinner with a loud "yurk-yurk-yurk", unable to yell for my wife to flee. To hold her nose and run as far away as possible. To keep running until she reached the back yard and the safety of outdoor air. I crawled with every intention of pulling myself to the vanity and spraying at least three spritzes of cologne up each nostril, anything to eliminate the oily horror crawling up my sinuses.

As the air below bed level contained less than 1,000 PPM of dog expulsion, my head began to clear and I was able to finally extract myself from the covers. I shakily lifted myself off the floor and looked to the bed, where Claire the boxer lay, now in my spot, head on my pillow looking at me with the dog equivalent of "What?"

Awake, full of adrenaline and embarrassment, I gave up on sleep for the night and went downstairs to make coffee. At least knowing that, down there, the only effluvient I needed to concern myself with was of my own creation.

The moral of this story? Don't put too much peanut butter in your dog's Kong toy to distract them before leaving them crated prior to an evening out. They will punish you for it in oh so many ways. Fairly thee be warned.

Missive From 35,000 Feet

Hi all. It's been a while.

Life's been a bit busy lately. Too much work, too much travel. It kind of hit me yesterday early morning on a three-hour flight to Houston for a demo...on a Saturday...at 7 AM. I was sandwiched between the bulkhead on my left and your standard American gastropod on my right.

My seatmate's girth required his beefy arm to extend well into the precious 22.3 square feet that my company had paid $400 for the purpose of getting me to the Lonestar State. In fact, it was permanently lodged into my side, with nowhere to go. Jiggling with every jostle of turbulence. At one point I seriously considered taking a zombie-like bite of it. It was so like a ham-hock that in my exhaustion - I awoke at 3:45 to get ready - it bore an incredible resemblance to meat I had used to cook the green beans with last Sunday.  I'm not kidding when I say it was like sharing a seat with Rob Ford sans crack. Chris Christie minus the Hershey's Syrup.

In that moment, I decided I really didn't like this whole travel for work thing anymore.

This last trip really cemented it for me. Squeezed between a freezing bulkhead on one side and a lifetime of poor dietary choices on the other in an unforgiving CRJ seat for three hours is no way to go through life, son. Its a bizarre choice indeed. Here we are in what is basically a giant paper towel tube made of aluminum with 90 strangers buzzing along at 35,500 feet (that's 6ish miles - a distance it takes me an hour to run). Who thought this was a good idea?

Across the aisle is a man who apparently has TB - I'm almost sure I saw bits of lung tissue as he folded away the increasingly tattered Starbucks napkin he had employed as a hankie. He's been coughing non-stop for the last two hours. The person behind me has apparently decided my seat is a part of the Total Gym system they have at home and Chuck Norris has directed them to hammer it back and forth to build core strength. The person in front of me is apparently trying to set the Guiness Record for the World's Most Flatulent Individual. The Flight Attendant, as surly and jaded as I, sloshes beverages around with the resentment of a person who has spent many grueling years putting up with this same shit and, truth be told, people like me. I won't mention the screaming toddler - its not really his fault his parents didn't give him Benadryl before the flight.

I'm jaded, cynical. The worst kind of traveler now. I have little or no patience for fools and/or infrequent travelers who don't know the rules - written and unwritten - of moving effectively through the nightmare that air travel has become. I know I'm insufferable. I can feel the veins in my forehead throb at each person who holds up security because they put a five gallon bucket of pickles in their suitcase; my teeth grind every time someone is last on the plane with a bag that could carry a moose and complains that there's nowhere to store it. I cry just a little on the inside when I board the plane and see that my hopes for Hillbilly First Class have been dashed by a last minute standby that smells like a NYC cab driver after a 10-hour shift in August. It goes on and on.

Its a sad, sad song and dance.

First world problems, right? Yep. Sure is. But in the immediacy of those horrible moments, its the problem right in front of you. When you do this for a living it does leech whatever faded color there might remain from the pleasure that was air travel.

Yet, we continue to do it. I typically fly at least three weeks a month. Sometimes every week. Its still the best way to get from point A to points, etc. I think that's why its so awful. The airlines know they have us by our collective and proverbial short hairs. They know they can herd us like cattle, charge us exorbitant prices, gouge us for baggage and change fees...because we really don't have any other options. Until we develop teleportation, flying it is. And if we let the Airlines control the Transporters, I'm sure they'll find a way to make those suck too...and to charge us an additional $200 for correct reassembly in Mumbai.

Now that I've vented my spleen, I can gear up for the three hour flight back to the CLE. I can take some solace that I will be in an even smaller plane on the way home - a CRJ with the 2-1 seat config. The only tubby guy in the seat will be me. That won't stop every once-a-year-or-godforbid-first-time-evar passenger getting on the plane from slamming my head with their bags, shoving their asses in my face or grabbing my seatback every time they push by my seat. I don't really notice that kind of minor nuisance stuff anyways. Really. I don't.

That's all for now. See you in the security line. I'll be the guy they're putting in zip strips because he finally snapped and told the TSA agents where they could shove their x-ray wand. But that's a blog for another day.