The Odd Couple: A Tale of Two Terriers
To understand the magnitude of this impending litter, you have to understand the parents. This is not a match made in a kennel club; this is a romance novel written by a drunk geneticist.
The Stud: Rocket
Rocket is a Theodore Roosevelt Rat Terrier. If you aren’t familiar with the breed, imagine a tank that has been lowered to the ground. He is the “Short King” of the operation. He has the legs of a badger, the chest of a bodybuilder, and the ego of a dictator. He walks through the house like he pays the mortgage.
The Queen: Bella
Then there is Bella. She is the “Type A” standard—the long-legged, athletic variety often referred to as the “Amish” or Decker strain. She is essentially a gazelle in a dog suit. She towers over Rocket. She is fast, sleek, and capable of jumping a six-foot fence without breaking stride.
Rocket, to put it delicately, had to bring a stepladder to the party. But he got the job done.
The Christmas Miracle
According to the calendar and the vet, Bella is due on Christmas Day.
While the rest of the world is unwrapping iPhones and pretending to like socks, I will be playing midwife to a litter of what scientists can only describe as “indestructible super-mutants.”
Think about the genetics here. You are combining the low-center-of-gravity torque of the Theodore Roosevelt with the high-speed suspension of the Type A Giant. These puppies aren’t just going to be pets; they are going to be tactical units. They will be able to jump onto the counter to steal a turkey and then tunnel under the fence to escape the crime scene in under 30 seconds.
But before the miracle of birth, there is the reality of pregnancy. And this brings us to the second, and arguably more important, topic of this manifesto.
The Cloud of Love
A pregnant Rat Terrier is a biological furnace. Bella is currently eating for five (or six, or god forbid, eight). Her metabolism is running hot. And the byproduct of this miracle is gas.
Silent. Deadly. Room-clearing gas.
And this leads to a universal truth that I have discovered after years of dating, dog ownership, and living the “Yankee Heath Cheese” lifestyle: Fart jokes are the gold standard of the human experience.
There is a lot of talk these days about “love languages.” People say their love language is “acts of service” or “quality time.”
Wrong. The only true love language is Humor. And the foundation of humor is the fart.
The Philosophy of the Poot
Hear me out. We live in a serious world. We have taxes, we have blizzards, we have political arguments. We have to be “professional” all day long.
But a fart? A fart is the great equalizer. It is the body’s way of reminding you that you are not a god; you are a biological machine that processes burritos.
If you are dating someone and they refuse to laugh at a fart, you are dating a spy. You are dating a robot. You are dating someone who takes themselves too seriously to survive a winter in Fergus Falls.
The “Fart Test” for True Love:
Love isn’t about looking perfect on Instagram. Love is sitting on the couch, watching a movie, when the dog (or let’s be honest, you) lets one rip that peels the paint off the walls.
- The Wrong Reaction: Disgust, anger, or a lecture on manners.
- The Right Reaction: Uncontrollable laughter and rolling down the window.
That laughter is intimacy. It’s vulnerability. It’s saying, “I know you are gross, and I love you anyway.”
The Ultimate Holiday Gift
So, this Christmas, my house will be a chaotic symphony.
There will be Rocket, strutting around like he invented fatherhood. There will be Bella, exhausted and likely releasing chemical warfare while nursing a pile of squeaking, potato-shaped puppies.
And in the middle of it all, there will be laughter. Because that is what this life is actually about. It’s not about the perfect decorations or the silent, sterile house. It’s about the mess. It’s about the short dogs and the tall dogs. It’s about the smell of puppy breath and, yes, the occasional toot from the corner of the room.
If you can’t laugh at the chaos, and you can’t laugh at the gas, you’re missing the point.
Merry Christmas from the Kennel. Bring a clothespin.
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