After spending the morning staring at the computer screen at work, wondering, “What the hell is it I do I here?” I’m back home. And sta
ring at the computer screen.
My faithful greyhound enters the office, walking carefully over the saltillo tiles. He makes it to the area rug, sighs in relief, and plops down next to my chair.
“Now this is nice,” I think. “Exactly why I have a dog. Companionship.”
A few seconds later he starts farting. Big dog. Big, fetid, meaty farts.
I grab a sketchpad and wave it around to clear the air every time he lets one fly. After about a dozen repetitions of this, Mr. Sensitive gets offended and leaves.
He doesn’t, however, have the good grace to takes the stench with him.
Greyhounds are better seen than smelled.
