I come to you today on a mission. A matter of great import. Something that is not regularly talked about in polite society, therefore is a staple of this blog.
Of course I'm talking about pet farts.
The problem, as I see it, is all about reaction. Never mind the fact that we fart in the first place - it's just our reaction to it. Men, probably from birth, are fascinated by farts, not to mention highly amused. This leads them to pop right up and claim ownership, displaying some sort of perverse pride in the simple act of anal exhalation.
Women are not so proud. Should some feminine puff manage to escape their dainty sphincters (of which there are over fifty in the human body), they will not so much leap up to assert that this was, in fact, theirs as attain a couple shades of red and apologize for the natural bodily function.
Natural as this is in humans, it is the same in pets. As you might remember, I have Marshall the cocker and Ren (aka Satan), the nineteen pound tabby. Both are rather prodigious in the amount (and quality) of gas production. Any real man would show pride in discovering that their pets are flatulent. Rather a chip off the old block, no?
Now here's the real issue: dogs and cats have no taboos (or at least any of which they've spoken). They are neither proud nor embarrassed by their own methane production. This makes it virutally impossible to figure out, in the words of Charlie Waffles [Two and a Half Men], Who Cut the Cheese?
It is medical fact that any diet change will produce changes in digestion. Stated another way, if you change Fluffy's food, Fluffy may fart. Or, in my house, where the dog is powerless over his addiction to cat food, Stereo Flatulence.
The trouble here is figuring out which little beastie made with the methane. It is especially difficult when they are near each other, on the floor or on the couch. Of course when they're both on the couch, the matter of which one produced the gas becomes secondary to potential asphyxiation.
The cat has been rather needy lately. No one knows why. Neither is content to let the other get any attention, producing yet more issues. Ren just jumped onto the couch, sat on my mouse, then prodeeded to make himself comfortable on my hand, which was unfortunately attached to said mouse. Just as he was attaining Kitty Nirvana, the smell became nauseating.
Oh great - we have to change the cat food again, this time due to Noxious Feline Flatulence<tm>. And I thought he was simply being cute. Obviously it's all part of his Master Plan to gas out the inhabitants of the house and attain world domination.
Of course I kid: this little bastard refuses to open his own food. He insists on being served. He loves his food but will not jump on the counter to eat it. He will, however, jump on the counter to eat my food. Mind you, Marshall has figured out how to hit the cat food can the right way so as to cause it to plummet to the floor so he can take it under the table and eat it. He has quite a collection of empties there. As best I understand, there is no twelve step program for cat food addiction. And yes, it makes Marshall toot the old anal horn too.
It would all be much easier if at least one of them would toot his own horn after, well, tooting his own horn. Can you teach an animal to be proud of his own farts? There was a South Park episode where the denizens were fond of the smell of their own farts. Perhaps we need to show it to the pets over and over.
Pets: be proud of your own noxious emissions.