We always knew the dogs were weird. We just did not realize they were training to become Sith Lords. Not Jedi. Not noble space warriors. We got the dark side version of dogdom and now our 40 foot diesel house is the Death Star with throw rugs.
Hippy did not choose the Sniff. The Sniff chose him. Normal dogs sniff a few things, pee on a shrub, move the hell on with their lives. Lord Sniffious interrogates every molecule of air. Every blade of grass. Every leaf. Walks that should take fifteen minutes take approximately the length of the extended cut of a fantasy trilogy, and that is just the first half mile.
He does not sniff objects. He sniffs possibilities. I swear he can tell that a squirrel was here eleven hours ago, a raccoon passed through at dawn, and somebody grilled a hamburger in 2017. His superpower is olfactory analysis at a forensic level. His weakness is thunder. And citrus. But mostly thunder.
If he had a Sith holocron, it would whisper, Sniff everything. Sniff until the humans break. And we have. Dear god, we have broken.
While Sniffious cultivated nose telepathy, Bennie discovered a darker power. Biological warfare. He does not toot. He deploys. He waits until we are cozy in the RV, lights low, book or movie going, beverage in hand, and then unleashes an invisible death fog with zero audio pre roll. No warning. No rumble. Just a silent blast from the abyss that hits fast and gags us both.
Paint wilts. Birds file EPA complaints. Kylie and I gag like pledges at a tequila party and scramble for windows. Bennie looks us dead in the eyes with the calm of a war criminal and lays his head back down like he just won a debate. His motto is simple, I find your lack of ventilation disturbing.
I always thought I had Jedi-level patience. Balanced. Focused. Peaceful. Hell, I trained Marines and herded scientists, so I figured two rescue dogs would be nothing. Then I remembered the Sith Rule of Two: a master… and a silent-but-deadly apprentice. The farts have tipped the balance. The Dark Side is winning.
Today we took Hippy to a dog park. Fresh air, sunshine, new scenery, a perfect chance to run and reset the balance. We open the gate and several dogs swarm like paparazzi with more drool. I do my best Jedi impression and remain calm. I turn to check on Hippy and the little tyrant already has them lined up so he can sniff their butts one by one. It is not chaos. It is an inspection. Lord Sniffious does not meet other dogs. He processes them.
Back in the Jeep, Fart Vader sits in silent meditation. He has no interest in socializing with other dogs, they are beneath him so he remains in the vehicle like a moody Sith commander. Plotting how to make His attacks silent, never telegraphed, and making them hit faster than I can locate the fan switch. When the cloud lands, my soul briefly exits my body, hovers near the roof, and wonders if this is really how I die.
I have accepted my fate. I am not in charge of this home. I am being conquered. And the Sith are winning.
End of transmission. May the Force, and some fresh air, be with you.