Let me introduce you to my daughter’s pet, Pumba the Super Farting Dog. The Smurf bought this little Cock-a-poo seven years ago on her sixteenth birthday. We threw in half the cost but inherited 100% of the care.
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 SBD’s – “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 is a sound heard before your eyes begin to water and the gag reflex kicks in.
Pumba is a very loyal pet. He remains deadly loyal to The Smurf; slobbering all over her whenever they are together, despite the fact that she is away at college most of the week! He also protects her like a Pit-bull on crack.
But, truth be told, which I am sure is true in many households across North America, “you-know-who”, the Grumps, has become the primary care-giver and puppy-buddy for this dog.
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.
“Eeeeww, 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, walk-a-bouts 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 just so cute!”
I’m thinking, “Ya, you were a cute baby, too, my devilish manipulative daughter.”
But, let’s rewind to the very beginning. Let’s go back to when the little ripper was a mere pup.
I tell you, I nearly won the battle a few years ago in that 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 = SLACK-JAWED AND BACKWARD, 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. He was about the size of an adult gerbil.
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 crap, The Smurf is gonna kill me!”
When I look up at the clock, a band of ice-water ran up and down 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 squealing like the tires on a fuel dragster.
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 like a hurricane went through the place.
The clock says 5 minutes to 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 for me.)
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!
“Hot damn! 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, all of them molding into a translucent green. I crawl through every room in the house, with my knees picking up painful rug-rash with every move 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 tile 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!
Maybe there will be a delay. JJ, the five year old has a habit of dropping his pants and having a pee before he comes through the door.
I’m waiting to hear The Smurf bellowing, “EEEEEWWWW! You can’t do that –that’s just gross1”
Wait a minute, he’s eleven now and there’s no chance of that happening. He’s completely toilet trained.
My eyes continue to scan the nether reaches of the kitchen. But, what’s that. Two little brown spheres are peering at me as they dart back and forth. Is that a wet nose shining in the dark space before me?
“Pumba,” I shout.
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. 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, my boy and the Good Wife. Somehow they all arrived home at the same time. 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? And, why are you crying?”
If Pumba wasn’t licking my face and cooing, I’m sure I would have throttled the mutt right then and there!
So, there you have it; an introduction to Pumba the Super Farting Dog. This tale is from back in the day when Mr. Poo first joined us. He’s going on eight years of age now, a senior doggy citizen with attitude. (Sounds a bit like Grumpy, right.)
But then again, ladies and gentleman, there is so much more to tell. Stay tuned for the continuing saga of my little buddy –you won’t be disappointed.