Sometimes this Chihuahua Pomeranian mix and this Australian cattle dog mix will sit next to me, working on long, cylindrical gold dog toys I have cannily stuffed with greenies. The dogs go insane for greenies. It’s a dog drug for sure. It’s dognip. I worry about anything that creates that much desire and excitement, as I am projecting my own addictive tendencies onto my animals, so I really pack the greenies down into the toys, making it near impossible to get them out. The treats are broken up with slow patient licking at the base of the toy, and so when they are on the floor, working on these buried treasures, snouts passionately engaged in extrication, they look like my very own horn section.
Dog eyes close in rapture, as they are entrenched in the moment, the touch of the tongue to treat releasing a burst of greenie flavor that they go for again and again. the horn section has no honking trumpets or saxophones, but there is the rhythmic cadence of canine breath and licking, and every once in a while, there is a tiny squeak of a dog fart, which always smells much larger than it sounds, filling the room with the stinky aftermath of swallowed air from playing. So even if it doesn’t sound like a brass band, they are still tooting their own horns.
I am scared to admit this, but I really love the smell of farts. I don’t care where it is from. If it is my own, I suck it up into my face. I have actually cupped my own ass and brought the scent to my nose. To me this is a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. Dog farts are even more exciting. They smell like a good time being had, excitement and satisfaction and bliss, a dog body relaxing after busy dog activities.
There is this cute thing my little dog will do, that my big dog doesn’t. The little one, after she has finished her session with the horn section, will take her instrument into her maw and heave it down a full flight of stairs, watching the toy bounce down each step, trying to see if this will break loose the greenie I have jammed inside with a wooden spoon or a chopstick. She will then run to the bottom of the stairs, walking around the toy carefully and slow, like a forensic detective, taking in clues, looking for evidence, checking out the site of the impact, like a ballistics expert. When she is finished with her detailed assessment, she will take the toy back into her jaws and race back to the top of the stairs and do it again, filling the stairwell with a green sulphurous gas that makes me instantly tired, and we will both collapse together on my bed, her tiny body pressed against my knee, or just at the bottom of my feet, to make a dog/human exclamation point, and we fart together in harmony.