# Adventures With Raz   Warning: Kind of long and has a fart in it



## Hairball (Nov 21, 2015)

I never really considered myself a real “dog lover” until about twelve years ago when I finally got my first dog. Even she wasn’t really a dog-dog. Ruffie was a beautiful wolf-husky hybrid. I am actually a major cat person; I grew up with cats and had them all my life. Now with five of the little monsters, I am well on my way to my lifetime goal: To be the crazy old cat lady down the street.


    But when my beloved wolfdog passed away at nearly twelve years old last Memorial Day, our home seemed empty. Worse than that, my heart was broken and there just seemed to be a big empty place somewhere inside me. So after a few weeks of misery, I finally broke down and got my little boxer-mix puppy, Lilly, at the pound. Though I still miss Ruffie terribly, little Lilly has helped fill that emptiness.


    Being the world’s worst dog trainer, I set out to train this little thing, and thank God she’s smart and catches on quickly. I’d be in a world of hurt otherwise. The cats probably thought I was crazy for bringing another dog home, and they promptly reacted accordingly with growling, hissing, spitting, and fluffing up. That lasted about a week and they finally gave up trying to intimidate Lilly.


    The household of five cats and puppy calmed down, and life got back to normal…or what passes for normal around here. 


    Then I get a phone call. The boss’s wife, our office manager and scheduler, asks if we would keep their dog for a few days while they moved. I think, well, no problem, we already have a zoo, what’s one more? So I tell her it’s fine, he’ll be okay, etc., etc., and so we met at a mall and I drove away with the boss’s dog in the back seat.


    This dog is huge. But he seemed so mellow and laid back, and Raz paid no attention to Lilly’s constant barking, warning me there’s a strange dog in the car. Like I hadn’t noticed, of course. 


    Things go relatively smoothly until a little after dark. Then as I went out on the deck, Raz bolted and hightailed it down the road. I thought, “Oh @#$%&!! He’s going to get hit by a car!” 


    But what was really bad was my next thought. “Crap!  Losing the boss’s dog is not going to look good on a resume!”
    Panicking, I call the boss’s wife. She was nonplussed. 


    “Don’t worry,” she said. “He does that sometimes. He’ll come back.”


    Oh goody, now she tells me. Has anyone but me ever noticed that when in a situation like this, when it’s someone else’s dog or child, the parents or owners never tell you what you really need to know – until, naturally, you call them after the fact. Then it’s too late – you’ve already had a stroke.


    She assured me Raz would come back shortly. Meanwhile, I’m running through yards, getting stuck in shrubbery, tripping over rocks, slamming into fences, plowing into mailboxes and waking up every other dog in the neighborhood. Raz just keeps running blithely on, not caring if I am indeed killing myself right behind him in the middle of the night. I never knew fat dogs with short legs could run that fast. There has to be greyhound blood in him somewhere, and lots of it.


    I finally gave up after a particularly uncomfortable encounter with a rose bush. Dejected, worried, and upset, I went back home and sat on the deck, cursing my bad luck and sulking. After about thirty minutes of my pity party, Raz showed up.

    “Oooooh, you little monster,” I cooed at him, snapping an industrial-strength leash around his neck before he decided to take off again. “I got you now, Bubba. You aren’t going anywhere!”


    So, we learned an important lesson. Things went smoothly for a few days, and Raz seemed happy. The cats came out of hiding and everyone settled down.


    It was my idea to clean out the fridge and give Raz a bunch of tasty leftovers. He certainly enjoyed them, and quickly polished them all off. Thinking all was well, I retreated to the computer room to look for something.


    All of a sudden I heard a “Fffffffffftttt!” It sounded like air leaking out of a bicycle tire.


    That’s strange, I thought, coming out to the kitchen to investigate the odd noise.


    I was in no way, shape or form prepared for the sight that greeted me in my clean, pretty kitchen.


    The door on the dishwasher was melted off. A six-foot crater was in the middle of the floor, and the paint and wallpaper were dripping off the walls. A murky, green fog filled the kitchen and began crawling down the hall. The smell was indescribable. It burned my eyes, singed my nose hair, and I couldn’t breathe. In the middle of the destruction, there was Raz, happily wagging his tail at me.


    Coughing and gagging, I fumbled blindly for his leash and managed to get it on him. We made it out the door just as the smoke alarms went off. My husband and Lilly came tearing out behind us, with him calling 911 on the cell phone. The cats were on their own. There was no way we were going to go back in there.


    The HazMat team from the fire department was the first on the scene, suited up like astronauts on a space walk. Seven of them went in, but only six came back out. The sheriff’s department showed up and cordoned off our entire neighborhood. The Red Cross and the police department began evacuating people and the EPA arrived to determine whether or not this green mushroom cloud hanging over our house was an environmental hazard. After a few hours, Halliburton was called in for the clean-up. We were arrested and charged with unlawful use of explosives, and it took us all night to convince the cops that we didn’t have any explosives in the house, and that the only explosive thing in the house was Raz’s rear end…which happened to be in the kitchen at the time of the incident. Since we had other pets too, they finally let us go with a very stern warning and a bottle of Beano. We never knew if they ever found that seventh guy on the HazMat team, but our cats were fine. They had survived by escaping the initial blast and hiding in the garage.


    The next day, after the Halliburton crew left, I called Raz’s owner, my boss’s wife.


    “Why didn’t you tell me Raz had a gas problem?” I wailed at her.


    “What are you talking about?” she asked.


    I surveyed the destruction in the kitchen. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? He farts – bigtime!”


    “Raz doesn’t fart,” she replied. 


    Oh, now I have heard everything. “Like hell he doesn’t!” I snapped. 


    “Well, it must have been something you fed him. Really, he doesn’t fart,” she insisted.


    “Oh yeah?” I yelled. “Well, check the newspaper. The front page. ‘Gassy Dog Destroys Kitchen!’”


    I muttered something about the horse she rode in on and hung up. I looked down, and there was Raz, wagging his tail at me.


    I sighed, then put his leash on him, and we went for a walk with Lilly. Dogs. Just gotta love ‘em!

I wrote this in July, 2007


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## Hairball (Nov 23, 2015)

Please, please can someone critique this? 

I'd really appreciate it.


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## Cran (Nov 23, 2015)

This is one of those pieces that struggle for feedback. There is not a  lot that is actually wrong with it - minor stuff only - but there is not  a lot to rave about either. This might be because the actual story is slotted into a broader commentary; extraneous background (as far as the core story goes) that really belongs in its own page. In other words, it is not one funny story, but at least two stories serving different purposes. 

The text is a bit large for a longer work. 
I never really considered myself a real “dog lover” until about twelve years ago when I finally got my first dog. Even she wasn’t really a dog-dog. Ruffie was a beautiful wolf-husky hybrid. I am actually a major cat person; I grew up with cats and had them all my life. Now with five of the little monsters, I am well on my way to my lifetime goal: To be the crazy old cat lady down the street.


    But when my beloved wolfdog passed away at nearly twelve years old last Memorial Day, our home seemed empty. Worse than that, my heart was broken and there just seemed to be a big empty place somewhere inside me. So after a few weeks of misery, I finally broke down and got my little boxer-mix puppy, Lilly, at the pound. Though I still miss Ruffie terribly, little Lilly has helped fill that emptiness.


    Being the world’s worst dog trainer, I set out to train this little thing, and thank God she’s smart and catches on quickly. I’d be in a world of hurt otherwise. The cats probably thought I was crazy for bringing another dog home, and they promptly reacted accordingly with growling, hissing, spitting, and fluffing up. That lasted about a week and they finally gave up trying to intimidate Lilly.


    The household of five cats and puppy calmed down, and life got back to normal…or what passes for normal around here. 
[All of the preceding is another story ...]


Then I get a phone call.   


[the story starts here...]
The boss’s wife, our office manager and scheduler, asks if we would keep their dog for a few days while they moved. I think, well, no problem, we already have a zoo, what’s one more? So I tell her it’s fine, he’ll be okay, etc., etc., and so we met at a mall and I drove away with the boss’s dog in the back seat.


[snip]all good[/snip]

    The HazMat team from the fire department was the first on the scene, suited up like astronauts on a space walk. Seven of them went in, but only six came back out. The sheriff’s department showed up and cordoned off our entire neighborhood. The Red Cross and the police department began evacuating people and the EPA arrived to determine whether or not this green mushroom cloud hanging over our house was an environmental hazard. After a few hours, Halliburton was called in for the clean-up. 

[Shift of focus = new paragraph]We were arrested and charged with unlawful use of explosives, and it took us all night to convince the cops that we didn’t have any explosives in the house, and that the only explosive thing in the house was Raz’s rear end…which happened to be in the kitchen at the time of the incident. Since we had other pets too, they finally let us go with a very stern warning and a bottle of Beano. We never knew if they ever found that seventh guy on the HazMat team, but our cats were fine. They had survived by escaping the initial blast and hiding in the garage.


    The next day, after the Halliburton crew left, I called Raz’s owner, my boss’s wife.


    “Why didn’t you tell me Raz had a gas problem?” I wailed at her.


    “What are you talking about?” she asked.


    I surveyed the destruction in the kitchen. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? He farts – bigtime!”


    “Raz doesn’t fart,” she replied. 


    Oh, now I have heard everything. “Like hell he doesn’t!” I snapped. 


    “Well, it must have been something you fed him. Really, he doesn’t fart,” she insisted.


    “Oh yeah?” I yelled. “Well, check the newspaper. The front page. ‘Gassy Dog Destroys Kitchen!’”


I muttered something about the horse she rode in on and hung up. I looked down, and there was Raz, wagging his tail at me.


    I sighed, then put his leash on him, and we went for a walk with Lilly. Dogs. Just gotta love ‘em!
[Appending to punchlines can reduce the impact. Avoid it if you can.]


I wrote this in July, 2007

​With respect to the core story, you do illustrate an entertaining sense of the absurd, and that is a skill worth honing. 
​


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## Harper J. Cole (Nov 25, 2015)

Thank you, I enjoyed the smooth progression of the story from the everyday to the surreal; it's hard to tell how much is fact, and how much fiction!

It's well-written, so there are only minor nits to pick. Other than the font size issue, which *Cran* mentioned, I had these thoughts ...



> But he seemed so mellow and laid back, and Raz paid no attention to Lilly’s constant barking, warning me there’s a strange dog in the car.



It's not entirely clear who Raz is, as this is the first time that you give his name, except in the title. I'd recommend giving it in the previous paragraph instead.




> But what was really bad was my next thought. “Crap! Losing the boss’s dog is not going to look good on a resume!”





> Panicking, I call the boss’s wife. She was nonplussed.




It looks like these are separate paragraphs, so there should be a blank line in between them.




> She assured me Raz would come back shortly. Meanwhile, I’m running through yards, getting stuck in shrubbery, tripping over rocks, slamming into fences, plowing into mailboxes and waking up every other dog in the neighborhood.



The sudden switch from past to present tense jars a little; it's usually best to stick with one or the other.



> The next day, after the Halliburton crew left, I called Raz’s owner, my boss’s wife.



I'd recommend simply saying: 'I called my boss's wife', as you've already established that she is the owner.

I'm sorry that you had to wait a bit for feedback; we don't get many entries in the Humour forum, so perhaps we don't check it as often as some of the other ones.

Please don't hesitate to message myself or any of the other Mentors if you aren't getting responses to a piece, and we'll take steps to rectify matters. That goes for anyone else reading this as well, of course.

HC


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## Hairball (Nov 26, 2015)

Okay! Awesome critiques!

I'll go back and fix it. It isn't long enough for chapters; would breaking it down into Part 1, Part 2, etc., help?


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## Cran (Nov 27, 2015)

Hairball said:


> Okay! Awesome critiques!
> 
> I'll go back and fix it. It isn't long enough for chapters; would breaking it down into Part 1, Part 2, etc., help?


A chapter, like a story, is only as long as it needs to be. I've seen chapters that were one sentence long. So don't worry about chapter length.

Also, the market exists for shorter shorts - flash fiction - in magazines, which is how many funny books got their start. Short witty anecdotes or stories are winners for writers.


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