Biscuits of the air variety
By Bubba and Max
Bubba: I gotta say that the air quality around here has improved since Mom and Dad took you for a ride the other day.
Max: (pretending to hunt for breakfast crumbs under the table) No idea what you’re talking about.
Bubba: I’m talking about the gas you were passing. It was strong enough to knock wasps out of the sky.
Max: Gas? Me? It’s all in your mind. I didn’t smell anything. (He wanders away and jumps onto the love seat.)
Bubba: I wish I hadn’t. (She follows and sprawls beside him.) And me without opposable thumbs to pinch my nose.
Max: Hey, it was so totally not my fault.
Bubba: And yet, it came directly out of your—
Max: La la la la la. Not listening.
Bubba: (under her breath) You never do.
Max: I heard that. Again, it was totally not my fault. Dr. Ferguson said it was a bunch of back . . . back something.
Bubba: Back seat? Like where we ride in the car?
Bubba: Back story? Like the stuff Mom and Dad talk about when they’re writing?
Max: Not that, either.
Bubba: Back yard? Where we go to do things we get yelled at for doing on the rug?
Max: Thinking. Thinking. Thinking—
Bubba: Careful, your head might explode.
Max: Back . . . back . . . back . . . bacteria. Yeah, bacteria. That’s the ticket. Blame it on the bacteria.
Bubba: ( Tone of skepticism) Bacteria? You’re making that up.
Max: No, huh, yeah. They crawled into my stomach. They’re real tiny. Itty-bitty.
Bubba: Smaller than kibble chunks?
Max: Way smaller.
Bubba: Smaller than the crumbs dad leaves on the couch when he eats?
Max: Way, way, smaller. Practically individual . . . induhvisual . . . uh, really hard to spot.
Bubba: If they’re so small, how did Dr. Ferguson see them?
Max: He, um, he didn’t, um, actually see them. He, um, smelled them.
Bubba: Wow. He must have an amazing nose.
Max: Yeah, I guess he’s pretty good at smelling, but I helped out. Guess what I did. Guess. Guess.
Bubba: I’m not sure I want to know.
Max: Okay, then, I’ll tell you. You know how Dad always says “timing is everything”?
Bubba: Uh, yeah.
Max: Well, just as Dr. Ferguson was thinking it wasn’t bacteria and telling Mom maybe it was just anxiety—not that I’m anxious, you know, I’m just high strung being a pedigreed dog and all and—
Bubba: A nerve ending on legs. Get to the point.
Max: The point. The point. Okay, I’m on it. Getting to the point now. Just then I kind of, well, you know, I kind of—
Bubba: Played your butt trumpet? Ripped one? Cut the cheese?
Max: I floated an air biscuit. Just a little one. More of an air crouton.
Bubba: An air crouton. Oooh-kay-fine.
Max: Dr. Ferguson called it “a diagnostic fart,” so there.
Bubba: That’s putting a positive spin on it.
Max: No, it didn’t spin, it just kind of snuck out and hung there for a while.
Bubba: So, did Dr. Ferguson give you something for the bacteria?
Max: Yeah, some anti-bioptics.
Max: What you said. And Mom pokes the little pills down my throat twice a day.
Bubba: Have they helped? (She nibbles at the bare spot on her back fur.)
Max: Yep. It’s been an air-biscuit free zone for two days now. But I still like to have a little fun with Dad.
Bubba: A doggy practical joke? I love those. What?
Max: You know how I like to crawl up on the bed in the middle of the night so my rear end is kind right opposite his face?
Max: I make this little sound with my lips (He makes a soft pfffft noise.)
Max: Who knew a big guy like Dad could levitate off the bed like that?