If you have a dog, you have to have a routine. Even if you change the routine, it’s still a routine. Have to, because dogs love it.
Patch, Mr. Brain of the Dog World, loves the morning routine. When I turn on the shower in the morning, his nose is in the shower. He blocks my way; I have to use my foot to shove him backwards which gets him out of the way for 0.25 microseconds and his nose is back in the shower. It’s like he’s saying, “Are you CRAZY? There is STEAM in there!”
When I get out of the shower, he’s on the edge of the bed. That’s because he gets his puppy snuggles now. I ask him politely if he’d mind wagging his tail, and it blurs a million miles a minute. Puppy snuggles (well, ok, he’s 5 years old) are the best. Then Patch hops off the bed and stares at the bedroom door. For the next 10 minutes, I’m getting dressed, brushing my teeth, putting on my shoes – he’s staring at the door. He’s on standby until the next exciting thing that happens, I open the door and he can go check for Alex.
I open the door, Patch runs to the stairs, tilts his head and listens for noises downstairs (it’s usually quiet, Alex is still in bed). Patch then runs to Alex’s room and sniffs under the door. Satisfied, Patch goes inside his box, a wire kennel, and lies down. He’ll wait there until his morning walk with Alex.
That’s the usual routine. This morning was a wee bit different. Patch is on the bed, I’ve asked him if he’ll waggle the tail, I lean over to snuggle him… just as an errant volume of gas, confined deep in my body cavities, finds my bent over position has offered it a taste of freedom. It escapes with a pitiful sound, like squeezing the neck of a balloon. *Pfftsqueeek*
Patch leaps up, directly into my throat hovering over him, instantly on guard against this windy squeaky intruder. He’ll protect my life, even if he kills me! I grab my throat, wondering if I can breathe, stumble backwards and hit my head on the wall – *bonk* – and Patch leaps off the bed, barking and growling. Thank goodness he doesn’t know where the intruder is hiding. I’m trying to breathe, not to laugh, and holding the back of my head, while Patch runs around the room barking.
I have a vision – I’m lying in the hospital, flat on my back on a gurney. The nurse says, “It’s no use. His esophagus is crushed.” The doctor writes on the death certificate, “Death by
cutting the cheese stepping on a duck passing gas chasing the wind farting.” It’s not a pretty vision.