Indy has spent the majority of the morning trying to bite her own ass.
I blame the salami she managed to inhale in the two seconds it fell on the kitchen floor this morning.
Evidently, salami + Indy = flatulence.
I’ve been catching up on the blogs I read, and every few minutes I hear what sounds like a whoopie cushion, followed by a bark, and then a tasmanian-devil masquerading as my dog scurries across the floor in circles, trying to bite her own butt. She is under the impression it is under attack.
Since it is distracting, I have attempted the following two methods to rid her of the gas so that I can continue about my day in relatively clean air:
1. I tried squeezing her from either side. This resulted in a pathetic glance and snort, followed by a long yawn.
2. I tried squeezing her head backwards into her body, like an accordion. This was in the hopes that all air would be pushed back and out. Result: Slobbery hand. Well that and she sat in the corner with her back to me for about five minutes, glancing over her shoulder every so often to make sure I noted her disapproval of my fart-free tactics. She remained in that position until of course, she loudly tooted again.
So now she’s back to running around in circles, in what has got to be the most effort anything French has ever put up against an attack.
Freedom Fries my ass.
Well, her ass-as the case may be.