02/27/2026
Human… listen.
You ever hear your parents go,
“Ra ra organic diet!”
“Grain-free!”
“Farm-to-bowl!”
“Wild-caught salmon kissed by moonlight!”
Yeah. That’s how it started.
Apparently I was no longer just a dog.
I was a wellness journey.
Mom watched one documentary and suddenly my regular kibble was “processed sadness pellets.”
Dad said, “We’re upgrading his gut microbiome.”
My gut microbiome did not ask for this.
They poured that fancy organic stuff into my bowl like it was sacred forest treasure.
Free-range.
Gluten-free.
Blessed by woodland monks.
And me?
I’m a simple creature.
If it’s in a bowl and smells vaguely edible, I inhale it like a vacuum with commitment issues.
So I ate the HECK out of it.
Licked the bowl.
Licked the floor.
Licked the air around the bowl just in case.
For two hours, I felt powerful.
Evolved.
Like a wolf who does yoga.
Then my stomach whispered,
“Brother… what have you done?”
The rumbling began.
Not a cute little tummy gurgle.
No.
This was a thunderstorm brewing in the lower hemisphere.
By bedtime, my insides sounded like a washing machine full of rocks.
And then…
💥 3:17 AM.
The first explosion.
It wasn’t p**p.
It was a biological event.
I barely made it off the bed before my rear end activated like a faulty sprinkler system.
Projectile.
Uncontrolled.
Strategic splash pattern.
It hit Mom’s favorite rug.
The beige one.
The one she calls “neutral.”
It was no longer neutral.
My parents shot up in bed like they heard a home invasion.
Dad: “WHAT WAS THAT?!”
Mom: “IS HE DYING?!”
No.
I was not dying.
I was repainting.
They tried to rush me outside, but my digestive system said,
“We are not done, sir.”
Round two hit the hallway carpet.
Round three decorated the door.
By sunrise, the house smelled like a compost heap during a heatwave… inside a sauna… inside a haunted barn. 🤮
Mom lit three candles.
Dad opened every window in February. 🥶
They switched me back to my regular food immediately.
But friends… once you open the gates of organic chaos… there is no closing them politely.
For three nights in a row, my b***y became a tragedy fountain.
Night two?
I tried to hide under the bed.
Bad choice.
At 3 AM, while I was wedged under there feeling sorry for myself, my bu****le betrayed me again.
No warning.
No bark.
Just pshhhhhhh.
And because I was stuck… there was no angle control.
It ricocheted off the bed frame.
The wall.
Physics was involved.
I panicked.
And when a dog panics… we shart.
Everywhere. 💩
My parents had to move their heavy bed at 3:12 in the morning while arguing in whispers that were not whispers.
Dad: “LIFT IT!”
Mom: “I AM LIFTING!”
Dad: “WHY IS IT EVERYWHERE?!”
Because, sir, I am a fountain of regret.
By night three, nobody trusted me.
I farted and Mom flinched like she heard gunfire.
I shifted positions in my sleep and Dad turned on the lights.
They slept in shifts.
Like I was a newborn with gastrointestinal warfare training.
The next night?
Exile.
Outside.
In the yard.
Me.
A house prince.
Banished because my p**p chute declared independence.
I stared through the window while they disinfected my legacy.
The carpets had to be professionally cleaned.
A man with industrial equipment came over.
He didn’t ask questions.
He knew.
Mom still gets flashbacks when I eat too fast.
If I fart, she whispers,
“Not again…”
So to all my fellow dogs out there:
If your humans say “organic,”
“holistic,”
“ancestral diet,”
“raw rotation,”
Just know…
Your ancestors did not have beige carpets.
Stay loyal to your regular kibble, brothers.
Because sometimes “farm fresh”
turns your farmhouse into a biohazard zone.
🙄💩🐶😳
