My dog has become an anxiety-stricken, tail-tucking, eyebrow-furrowing, nervous wreck. For weeks now, he has been convinced that something, somewhere is waiting to strike him from behind. The culprit, as far as I can discern from his behaviour, is not in his head. It is deeper. Guttural. It is the enemy within. It is, unbelievably, his own farts.
After nine years on the planet, he finally developed gas so bad that it broke his tiny little mind. Danger now lurks around every corner like a smelly ninja. His fear is reinforced by the sound of the air purifier, which automatically kicks into high gear following an assault. The sound of the fan spooling up to a whirr sends him skittering between my legs, keeping his back to the wall with an eye on the exits like a mobster in a delicatessen.
The whole situation would be hilarious if his concern wasn’t so profound. He no longer feels safe in his home. Always underfoot, his waking hours are a constant whine, and sleep only comes when he’s tightly curled-up beside my neck. “It’s okay,” I assure him as calmly as I can muster knowing that now, I’m in the danger zone too.
Long ago, when DeLoreans roamed the earth, Brad was born. In accordance with the times, he was raised in the wild every afternoon and weekend until dusk, never becoming so feral that he neglected to rewind his VHS rentals. His historical focus has assured him that civilization peaked with The Simpsons in the mid 90s. When not disappointing his parents, Brad spends his time with his dogs, regretting he didn’t learn typing in high school.
