I Got Gas
Mozart journals about his recent gastronomic delights to discover the cause of his trauma-inducing flatulence.
It’s May in Nebraska, which means for the first time in nearly six months, I have the option of taking my daily relaxation in the backyard with only the fear of violent tornados touching down suddenly, destroying all life and limb in its path. I celebrate these peaceful times by taking a snooze al fresco until the sunny patch I thought was beneath me suddenly moves across the yard. No worries. It’s my choice – either find another sunny patch, or retire under the Management’s bed – my own personal den, if you will. I realize what an unburdened life I lead. It’s why I sleep so soundly.
Yet, my golden slumber isn’t without its trials. So is the nature of this world: even that which pleases us most can distress us to the core. I’m nearly 91 years old, and with age comes this kind of wisdom.
No, you see, I have this problem. It’s kind of embarrassing, yet I know that you can probably relate. Otherwise, I’d shamefully keep this secret to myself. Though to some in my immediate circles, it is no secret at all.
When I sleep, I often…well, my muscles relax, causing my colon to…You see, I can only hold it in for so long, but while I am sleeping, it is difficult to regulate the muscles that control my…
Ok, I’ll just out with it. I fart in my sleep.
There you have it. What a burden I’ve been carrying! Thank goodness I have you to talk to – you who won’t judge me or laugh in my face as you pass me on the sidewalk. I know that humans can understand – I’ve never met one who didn’t feel it was entirely appropriate to squeak one out while seemingly alone in a room, away from the other party guests, family members, foreign dignitaries. Don’t worry. I’ll never tell.
All would be perfect if what I produced didn’t assault one’s olfactory sense. But it never fails. The Management can be sound asleep for hours, and will still awaken to one of my silent-but-deadlies with a choke and a cry, rising out of bed as if possessed a la Linda Blair, exclaiming “DEAR GOD, MOZART!”
They know I am the culprit. My scent is impossible to emulate. No human, animal or vomit-coated rotten egg factory could even attempt to replicate its potency. Among other members of my species, I would be canonized. I’d take my place among the greatest of farters in all dogkind as St. Flatulent-of- the-Great-Plains-Boston-Terriers. But living as I do among human beings and a “sort-of” canine breed (I’m sorry, I missed something: Genji is a Japanese what?), my gift is a curse. The Management has purchased several of these towers they call “ionizers”, which they quickly switch on moments after realizing that drawing breath may result in suffocation or death.
Immediately following the expletives, hand-fanning, face covering, flailing, spinning and spraying of hospital-strength deodorizers (a can in each hand), they lift the bedskirt to find my bulging eyes and submissively relaxed ears to ask me the question on everyone’s mind: WHAT DID YOU EAT?
It must be a rhetorical question, because they never stick around for a response. Instead, they stomp off to further eliminate the smell or exit the room, depending on what time of day or night it occurs.
Eating grass is a gas, baby. Can you dig it?
Gosh, I don’t know, I’ll think. What the heck DID I eat today? There was that half eaten boiled egg that Nate threw on the floor at breakfast, followed by the patch of grass I devoured as my mid-morning snack, followed by a few rejected mini-corn dogs at lunch (also courtesy of Nate), a pile of freshly cut lawn clippings, that rotten stick I found by the back fence, a bird foot (yes, tastes of chicken), a microwaved chunk Salisbury steak with gravy for dinner (yum, keep it coming, skinny kid), and that moist diaper that…well, no, I only nosed around in that, so it shouldn’t count. I ate a few bits of that awful dog food, just to humor the Management. What else, what else…oh, I did happen to catch about a half-cup of shredded mozzarella that spilled from a bag that the Management tried pulling apart for about five minutes while mumbling something about the kind of sadistic bastard who would design packaging like that. Ha. “Resealable bag my ass!” They crack me up.
Dr. Ruppert (the man who saved my life when my back went out last summer) suggested that I try food journaling. “It’s easy to just stuff your face all day and not realize what you’re eating,” he said as he inserted the thermometer. “I hear ya, Doc,” I strained to say.
“Also, that grass you’re addicted to is bad, bad stuff,” he advised. “Got plenty of clients on detox. Plus we have a support group that meets every other Wednesday evening throughout the summer. Maybe talk to the Management about it. I think it could help. I’d never suggest going cold-turkey, after all.”
“Turkey? I thought. “Yes. With gravy please.”
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As the owner of the gassiest dog on the East Coast, I feel your pain.