Dogs of War

When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. I suggested to my friend that instead of dropping regular bombs that explode, we should drop bombs of dog poo or bombs that explode and disperse really bad dog fart smells.

He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.

Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.

First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.

I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.

Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.

My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.

Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.

On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.

But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.

As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.

But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.

So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.

Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.

The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.