The weekend was a cloudy, rainy one. The kind where you put the socks at half mast and just lay back on the couch hoping something good might ever come on tv, or sleep will take you instead. Either way it’s a win-win. My pupper had the same idea, as she lay sprawled on her bed, and it is orthopedic, so no worries about those old bones. Utter comfort was achieved, or so I thought. Little did I know that the apex of comfort really occurs when it is punctuated by the allieviation of one self. In short I was shown true comfort by the rumbling of the dog farts.
Enraptured in her sleep, when the mini earthquake occurred, just a little one, it got both of our attentions. Not only did this surprise me, but it surprised the little fury offender who promptly sat up and looked at me, wondering what hell happened. Bemused I half tempted to call her over for a pat of comfort, but wisely realizing the mistake in that. Would I sooner open a carton of milk and upon smelling the bitter sourness of spoil, then proceed to put it in the treasure that is my cheerios? I don’t think so.
It left me wondering how many times that little animal surprises herself with those little poots (pupper power poots if you will), and what a life where you not only did not know the nature of thunder, but your own body worked against you in efforts of mimicking this horrid sound.
It made me curious of the lion of the Savannah stalking the gazelle in the tall grass. Should such this even occur, who would be more surprised, the lion or the gazelle?
