My dog has gas problems. As in: major gas problems. And the funny thing is, I think he’s rather embarrassed by it.

The Wife™ and I thought it was cute when we first got Jonas that he’d have tiny puppy burps that would ripple through his throat and take him by surprise. Often, these darling little gastrointestinal rumblings would even cause him to snort, sneeze or blink excessively immediately following expulsion. Cute. Because when you’re a puppy, even your belches are adorable.

There were even a few times that a rather unpleasant smell was detected and ultimately traced back to him. And there he’d sit, with his little sad puppy eyes, as if to say, “What? Me? I’m so sorry. But I’m far too innocent and endearing to be blamed. Please don’t frown at me big person.” We’d laugh at the thought of the dog passing gas because apparently our standards for humorous material have slid a few notches since marriage.

Since we’ve taken him off puppy food, a measure to curb The Wildness™, these unfortunate eructations have increased in frequency, volume and dramatic presentation. I’m confident that every judge on Dancing With the Stars would rate him a “perfect 10” each time. Then I imagine him doing a mini curtsy and exiting stage left, tipping his tiny top hat towards the audience. Nonetheless, our dog has a severe gas issue. And to The Internets I confess that I can take it no longer.

Yesterday, while standing in the kitchen preparing dinner, Jonas came trotting in. The Wife™ was away for the evening and he and I had ample time to romp it out and play fetch, joyfully wrestle and partake in our favorite game: “OK Seriously…Stop Biting Me! Jona—STOP OR I’LL DISEMBOWEL YOU!” What a great game.

So as I stood at the counter doing something human-like and me-centered (both things that His Highness™ detests as neither involve him), he began to get frustrated. I can only assume it was because I was not paying enough attention to his awesomeness. To fix this he takes off! Dashing through the kitchen, into the living room he dove into his crate head first (if he had done it ass-first then even I would have scored him a perfect 10). He emerged with his giant red Kong™ hanging from his mouth, as proud as if he had just caught a pigeon or completed a medium level of that Sodoku puzzle he’s been working on in his off-time. He pranced around the living room, strutting his stuff, just brimming with pride.

And as the spirit moved him, he came running back into the kitchen. Me, doing me-things and not him-things, still was not paying attention. So in an effort so filled with triumphant flair and panache, he raised his head (with the conical-shaped Kong™ still hanging out of his mouth) and proceeded to belch the loudest, most crude belch I’ve ever heard. The fact that he was using his Kong™ as a megaphone to amplify this act of glory made it all the more spectacular.

As I looked down at him in horror, he met my gaze with his own surprised expression. He looked left, raised an eyebrow, cast his eyes to the floor and dropped the Kong™. He then ran away in embarrassment at the atrociousness he had just committed.

Jonas spent the rest of the evening slinking around the house, avoiding me like a child who has disappointed their parent in some way. I guess he’s over it now, though, as this morning he gleefully produced a sound so foreign and heinous that—if dogs had pants—would make me question if he had just crapped them.

It was still funny too.