My dad loves fart stories. He has his whole life -- he has never outgrown the idea that fart are absolutely hilarious. This trait may have been passed on to his daughters.
The other day, when dad was having a particularly bad day from the side effects of chemo, I told him the following story:
Last weekend we had our first fire in the fire place for the season. We don't know if Beauty's ever been around a fire, and she seemed quite anxious. We were accustomed to our sweet dog Dax, whose dog bed was perennially placed right in front of the fireplace, where he could be warm and cozy when a fire was roaring.
Beauty, on the other hand, was quite concerned about the fire. She did not want to go near it, even into her cozy dog bed. We pulled her bed several feet into the room, then throughout the course of the evening pulled it closer and closer to the fire, until she was finally right in front of the fire grate.
She snuggled down and seemed content.
But then we learned she was not.
I was sitting in a chair right next to the fireplace, and let out quite an audible fart.
At the sound, Beauty leapt up like something bit her, her tail down, ears back. She glanced back at the fire, then scurried up the stairs. She spent the rest of the evening sleeping on Lindsey's bed.
Clearly she believed my gas was from that ominous fire. We all laughed uproariously. Tears rolled down our cheeks and we clutched our guts in laughter.
I told this story to my dad, and he responded in kind: He dropped the phone in laughter. It was perfect. Clearly the best remedy for a day when he wasn't feeling his greatest.
I think I'll hold on to all my fart stories until the days he's not feeling well.