Gas Bag

One of my memories of living in Chicago was the odor of the CTA busses. Every time an old truck or other vehicle passes by with a poorly tuned diesel engine I am mentally transported back to my days in the city. The bus odor back then was a combination of burning tires, and the smell of the erasers on the end of my grade school #2 pencils when I would vigorously erase one of my many mistakes. That is roughly what I am smelling at this very moment. Chandler is snoozing on the floor right next to my office chair, and he has blown a fart. It smells exactly like a CTA bus with the added ingredient of dog shit. The worst part about it is that he sneaks the damn things out. There is no warning, no sound at all, and before you know it you are trapped in the room as it fills with the stench. Even if you run out of the room it clings to the hair in your nostrils giving you an odoriferous souvenir of the canine gas bag.

This dog fart problem is something relatively new, and in fact for quite a while I couldn't figure out which dog was doing it. Mark would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming at the dogs to get the hell out of the bed.
"Somebody farted." he'd whine.
"It wasn't me." I'd mumble back.
You'd definitely know if it was me because mine are announced by loud trumpeting, as if the queen were entering the room.
"It's one of the dogs. Get them out of here."
But I don't throw them out, instead I just turn the ceiling fan on high, roll over and go back to sleep.

Over the past few months I have figured it all out. It is most assuredly Chandler, because I have witnessed Sasha farting, and she farts like I do. With panache. Her little toots are so funny because they make her jump. Poot! And Sasha shoots forward as if jet propelled. I intend to try and get that on video one of these days. For now though, I will just turn the ceiling fan here in my office on high.