Pumba the Super Farting Dog
Let me introduce you to my daughter’s pet, Pumba the Super Farting Dog. The Smurf bought this little Cock-a-poo eight 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 now a mom and no longer lives at Grumpy Villa! He also protects her like a Pit-bull on crack.
But, truth be told, which I am sure is spot-on 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. And, now that the Smurf is long gone, so are those promises.
“Eeeeww, that’s gross, I’m not picking up, THAT!”
You see, now that the Smurf is out-of-the-picture, the darned dog has become my constant furry companion: full time care, walk-a-bouts and feeding included. After all, Grumpy is retired, readily available, and “You’ve got a lot of time on your hands, Dad! And, isn’t he just so cute!”
Grumpy is 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.
Grumpy will tell you, he nearly won the battle a few years ago in that first month we had the little fart. Grumpy did his best impression of the Dog Whisperer, although those whispers sometimes escalated into a roar.
“PUMBA, STOP THAT!”
During the day when everyone is at school or work, Grumpy has a “honey-do” chore-list to keep him busy and occupied. (Apparently RETIRED = SLACK-JAWED AND BACKWARD, because I willingly bought into this spousal directed ‘yes dear’ housekeeping concept.)
Well, little Pumba followed Grumpy around as if he was gum stuck to his shoe –constantly dodging his feet as he scurried about. At that time, he was about the size of an adult gerbil and just about as cuddly cute.
On this particular day, Grumpy was busy working away and noticed that the little fur ball was not under foot.
“Pumba, Pumba! Where are you?” he called. The response he got was total silence.
No matter how he called – soft, demanding, pleading – the dog neither responded nor showed his little mutt-face anywhere. The little bugger had completely disappeared.
“Oh, my God,” Grumpy thought. “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 Grumps looked up at the clock, a band of ice-water ran up and down his spine, because the school bus was about to arrive in ten minutes. Grumpy’s little blond tornado would be coming through the door expecting the Farting Dog to slather her with “doggie kisses”.
Grumpy panics now, thinking of the consequences and the wrath of his daughter, his wife and his son. Like a whirlwind he begins pulling out furniture, turning over tables, removing chairs and rearranging the décor. “Pumba, Pumba!” he calls, with his voice squealing like the tires on a fuel dragster.
Still no dog-gone dog!
“Maybe he got trapped in one of the rooms,” Grumpy thinks. Ya, that could be it, because Grumpy keeps all of the house doors closed, you see – a puppy poop security measure.
Now Grumpy begins to ransack the house like an intruder; bedcovers, mats and the like are strew about like a hurricane went through the place. The household begins to deteriorate into a scene from the Learning Channels series about hoarders.
The clock now declares that it is 5 minutes to bus time. Grumpy’s heart pounds in his chest as if that bus might just bring zombies to the door!
“Sheeeeet! Pumba! Pumba! Where the hell are you?”
Grumpy is getting to the anger stage now –beginning to shout and growl and foam at the mouth. However, in this little movie Pumba continues to play the role of Silent Bob.
But wait, there is another tactic!
Grumpy runs to the treat cupboard and starts 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 Grumpy.)
Flatulence of the first degree!
Well if Grumpy can’t see him, maybe he can sniff him out like a hound dog! But alas, despite a terrain spread with terrific treats, there is still no freaking dog!
Grumpy is desperate now. The last few seconds are ticking down. Smurfaggedon is so close he can taste it.
Then it strikes him!
“Hot damn! I need to get down to the little pup’s level. I need a doggie’s eye view.”
So, Grumpy slithers on down to a prone position and gradually sets his aching knees to carpet and begins to scramble about on all fours, calling, “Pumba, Pumba? Pumba where are you?”
Grumpy 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. Grumpy crawls through every room in the house, with his knees picking up painful rug-rash with every thrust forward. All the while, he dodges the brick and bract of the ransacking he did earlier.
The only place left to look is the kitchen.
By now Grumpy is sweating profusely, covered in grime and just about at his wits end. The cool tile floor invites him to lie down and end his suffering. That’s just about the time he hears the squeak of school bus brakes just outside the door.
Grumpy is done like dinner!
The dog-gone-dog is still gone!
Maybe there will be a delay. The Phenom, the five year old has a habit of dropping his pants and having a pee before he comes through the door.
Grumpy is 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. Unlike Pumba, he’s completely toilet trained.
Grumpy’s eyes continue to scan the nether reaches of the kitchen. But, what’s that? Two little brown spheres are peering at him as they dart back and forth. Is that a wet nose shining in the dark space before him?
“Pumba,” Grumpy hollers.
The little monkey had climbed up unto the second shelf of a small shoe rack near the back door and had hunkered down amongst the shoes.
All Grumpy 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-honey-do list companion. Whatever the cause, he found his niche in the last place Grumpy would ever have thought to look.
Grumpy gathered the little pest up in his arms and hugged him closely. The dog greeted him with one of his best SBD’s ever. Grumpy’s eyes, of course, welled with tears from the stinging toxic fumes.
That’s just about the time the door flew open.
There stood Grumpy’s daughter, his young lad 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, the Good 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?”
Grumpy’s daughter added, “Daddy, what have you been doing? Playing with dog all day? And, why are you crying?”
If Pumba wasn’t licking his face and cooing, I’m sure Grumpy would have throttled the mutt right then and there! All Grumpy could do was force a smile and mumble, “So how was your day?”
Of course, Pumba licked Grumpy’s face as if it was covered in bacon flavored treats and his tail wagged like a windshield wiper on overdrive.
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.)
There are more tales to tell, especially since Pumba, as an adult, thinks he is a pit bull in cutesy-pa-too-tee clothing.
“Oh, what a cute little dog!” people say when they meet him for the first time. That’s just before Pumba attempts to rip their hand off or jump up and bite them on the ass.
But, more about that later!