So my dad and my dog have this rivalry.

Jada, mourning for my mom after a depression induced peanut-butter binge.

And to make a long story short, it’s a rivalry for my mom’s love.

Which, to be totally honest, is how it feels for the whole family. My mom loves that dog more than she loves all her children combined. And the feeling is mutual.

When mom isn’t home, Jada wanders around the house listlessly, barely even perking up for a treat, and giving you a bored, glazed stare when you try to pat her or comfort her. She occasionally lets out a long, soft fart, that fills up the whole room with a sad, smelly haze.

Which is really where this story begins.

My dad used to be the farting king in the family. I think I learned how to fart from him.

Back before my parents met (he’s technically my step dad), I don’t think I ever farted. Not once. I am convinced that if my parents had never gotten married, I would have gone about my life without ever cutting the cheese. This is a deep-seated regret of mine, but I guess good things came out of their marriage too, so I have come to accept the slight downside of the mild nagging fear of farting on a first date.

Anyway, none of us could ever surpass my dad when it came to rank farts. Whenever he’d let one rip, we’d all moan, “DAD EUUWW!” and my mom would shriek, “DEAN! You need to stop eating dairy!” and we’d all have a good laugh – after we’d escaped to another room, of course.

We had a dog back then too, but she never farted or challenged dad in any way, and I was convinced that those story books about Walter the Farting Dog were a dumb myth made up by someone who had never owned a REAL dog.

I was wrong.

Because Jada. Farts.

I had never experienced a true fart until Jada came into our lives.

Seriously, the first time she farted, I gasped, plugged my nose, and asked my mom what had happened. Did someone drop a bomb? Is this a terrorist attack? Where is dad? I don’t see him anywhere but OH MY GOD.

“Oh, it’s just Jada,” she smiled, reaching down to stroke her head. “That was a good one,” she coos.

I, in the meantime, have fallen over and died, because nothing could survive that noxious onslaught of gas.

Since then, Jada’s absolute disgustingness has become a part of the family. We’ll all be sitting on the couch watching Seinfeld, and suddenly a long, soft spoofing of air will come from Jada’s general direction.

Immediately, we’ll all start gagging and crying and stumbling towards the nearest exit, while my mom smiles serenely and tells Jada to ignore us, and to fart all she wants. “You’re hurting her feelings!” she’ll cry as we all pass out from lack of oxygen.

The thing about this, other than the fact that it is SO GROSS, is that my mom totally does not pat my dad on the head when he farts. Instead, she kicks him out of bed and tells him to take a Tums or something.

Not only is Jada a better farter than him (if smellier = better, which in this case, I’m gonna say that it does.), but somehow, her farts earn my mother’s love, rather than the cold shoulder. What is he doing wrong?! He was farting before that damn dog was even born!!!!

If Jada had been alive when my parents had met, my mom probably would have married the dog instead.

What kind of man can live with that sort of knowledge? My poor, poor, farting dad. (and you think I’m joking, and I kind of am, but also, I think he really is a little jealous that Jada’s allowed to fart whenever, and he has to watch his dairy intake.)