FARTY MARTY

FARTY MARTY                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

         We all know a family member that surprises us. A brother who belches at will and burps song lyrics. An uncle who whistles through his nose. A mother who mutters at other drivers as if they could hear her. A daughter who snorts and sprays her drink while laughing. A petite granddaughter with a scream that can shatter glass. A mate with a snore that out-rumbles a freight train.                              

         In our family, we endure a frequent farter. He appears uninvited, unannounced, and unappreciated. Conversations are interrupted. He shocks. He startles. He clears a room. Family members hold their breath, gag, choke, protest, and sometimes laugh. They blame the dog; the dog they've named Farty Marty.          

         Nothing is sacred to Marty. He spares no one. Farting, flatulence , gas, passing wind, breaking wind, tooting, cutting the cheese, dropping a bomb, or " the horn works, try the lights"; Marty has heard them all.                                        

         Like most dogs, he just has to be close to his people. At mealtimes, he's under the table. I can picture Marty grinning in satisfaction/bliss/relief; his tail slowly fanning his deadly discharge. His front paws are casually crossed with not a care in the world. For car rides, he squeezes into the backseat. With his head held high and his eyes alert, he has only to slightly shift his weight to relieve the pressure. I'm certain the silent stink bomb that he released during a recent trip flattened his ears, wrinkled his nose, and caused him to cough. My toes are still curled.                                                                                                                        

         Sprawled, watching television, Marty is encouraged by the cries of " Eeww! It's the dog!", as he lets one rip, like a stuttering firecracker. Gazing reflectively into a crackling campfire, he seems as amazed as the rest of us by the sudden fury of his thunder--- Thunderous Eruptous. At bedtime, he burrows under the blankets and half-asleep, he expels a long-winded and squeaky " pffft".Especially effective, are the "blooming" bombs delivered in stealthy silence.                    

         Wherever we go, Marty is in the thick of things. He particularly likes to shadow the granddaughters. Somehow, he sneaks into the mall, the movie theatre, public swimming pools, the girls'-only change rooms,and even restaurants. He frolics with them in the lake. He likes to share cramped quarters in a pup tent. He scampers after them when they explore. On walks, his occasional odoriferous outburst assures them that they're not alone. He runs around their bikes. He waits impatiently as they eat. He cuddles when they sleep.                                                                      

         He never fails to make them laugh. He's disturbed the soothing sanctity of bedtime. It dissolves into delightful giggles. He jeopardizes the concentration and steady hands needed for a game of JENGA. He creates a numbing fog which befuddles a storyteller. During a crucial reveal scene in a motion picture he let his movie rating be known . The plugging of our noses did not signal our agreement.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

         Perhaps I've been distracted by my gasping for fresh air or blinded by scalding tears, because I've never actually seen Farty Marty. Oh, I've definitely heard and smelled his presence! Judging by the intensity and frequency of his natural gas, he's no Chihuahua.                                                                                                    

         Farty Marty's breed, size, and colouring are all a mystery. Here's the thing. I do not have a dog--not a real one anyway...... (547 words)