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?

Max: No.

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.

Bubba:  Anti-biotics.

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?

Bubba:  Uh-huhn.

Max:  I make this little sound with my lips (He makes a soft pfffft noise.)

Bubba: LOL!!!

Max: Who knew a big guy like Dad could levitate off the bed like that?