“Don’t move, or I’ll poop,” DJ threatened, his tail pointed westward ho, his back hunched southward ho in defiance.

My teeth chattered as I backed up against the wall. I knew my dog wasn’t bluffing. When it came to rear-end evacuations, DJ was a terrorist—terrier-style, i.e., no holds barred, no mercy, sin piedad. He had proved it in a crowded elevator, in the cosmetics department at Holt Renfrew, and even at the Montreal International Dog Show. That last one was a DJ masterpiece: as the judge awarded me—well, him, maybe us—the blue ribbon for Best in Class, he dropped a chunky Christmas log just as the photographer snapped our “victory” pic. Sure, it was funny in hindsight—who doesn’t love a nutty log rolling down the red carpet to the horror of an overweight dog-show judge? But at the time? Humiliating. I became the joke of the dog park, not to mention persona non grata in the dog-show world.

“Do not move. Do not even blink,” DJ said again, his eyes narrowing.

I needed a plan. Fast. This little tyrant knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how freaked out my wife got when he had an “accident” on the freshly varnished wood floor, and he was milking it for all it was worth. This wasn’t about needing to go outside. He’d been zoned out all morning in dog-fog, staring blankly into space, his curly head as blissfully empty as an apology that begins with “if.” But the second I tiptoed through his territory on my way to the kitchen—bam!—a lightbulb went off in that otherwise vacant skull of his: Torment master!

I sucked in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. This was canine blackmail, pure and simple.

Get a dog, they said. The best friend you’ll ever have.

Yeah, well, no one told me I might end up with a four-legged, wiry-haired terrorist holding me hostage in my own living room.

I reached into my pockets, running a quick inventory.

Right pocket: a rubber tarantula with disturbingly real fake hair. I’d planned to use it for a prank in the mall food court later that day. Sacrificing it now would ruin something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Besides, good rubber spiders were hard to find, and this one was a steal at 50% off.

Left pocket: my iPhone. I winced as my fingers brushed against its cheap plastic case—a Dollar Store find from the clearance bin. Deal of the century, I thought. If only more of life could be had in a clearance bin, I’d be laughing all the way to my California Closets.

For one fleeting moment, I imagined flinging the phone at DJ’s head, but a quick damage assessment stopped me. What if I missed his thick head and shattered the screen? I’d have to wait six months for an upgrade. Too risky.

“Don’t even think about it,” DJ growled, his tone dripping with menace. “I just ate an entire pot of yo’ mama’s chili con nasty.”

I inhaled deeply—ugghh. I felt queasy. He’d ripped a mighty one, silent but deadly, and it hit me like a Cybertruck in an egg store. My stomach churned.

This was war.

War… hmm… loud noises, I thought. Yes! Loud noises were DJ’s kryptonite.

Aha! I thought. Today might be my lucky day.

I pulled out my phone and quickly opened the fart app—a recent download courtesy of my six-year-old nephew, Dirk. I had no idea if it would work, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

DJ’s ears perked up as I scrolled through the sound effects. Wet Explosion? Turbo Tooter? The Grand Finale? Decisions, decisions.

“You wouldn’t dare,” DJ hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

“Oh, yes I would,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Yes, I, dear sidekick.” My thumb hovered over the button labeled The Big One.

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then I pressed it.

A deafening, reverberating BRRRRAAAP filled the room, complete with echoes that sounded like a tuba in a wind tunnel.

DJ froze, his eyes wide with horror. His tail uncurled slightly, and for one glorious second, I thought I had won. But then—

Just as DJ crouched, ready to release his bellyful of chili con nasty, salvation arrived.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing?!” my wife shrieked, her voice piercing the air like a Metallica concert on the last day of the world.

The house shook. The windows rattled. Neighbors ducked under their tables. Birds dropped out of the sky, convinced an earthquake was ripping through the neighborhood.

DJ froze mid-squat, his eyes as wide as saucers. For a moment, he looked like one of those taxidermy animals caught in mid-motion—tail in the air, ears back, pupils blown with terror. Then, with the grace of a clumsy gazelle, he leapt straight up into the air and landed stiff as a board.

The room fell silent.

DJ didn’t move. He didn’t blink. And—miraculously—he didn’t poop.

For the next 24 hours, he remained frozen in what I could only describe as canine catatonia. I collapsed to my knees in relief, hands clasped together as though in prayer.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the heavens. “Thank you for marrying me to the greatest woman an unworthy, simpering canine-loving wretch like me could ever hope for.”

"Cowardly too," a Voice from Heaven chanted.

My wife, still glaring at DJ, slowly turned her gaze to me. “What did he do this time?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, flashing my most innocent smile. “Just worshipping you, a la canine.”

Her expression softened—slightly—but I knew better than to push my luck.

DJ, meanwhile, kept his distance for the rest of the day, tiptoeing around my wife like she was Kim Jong on a purge. I, on the other hand, treated her to a spa day, a new pair of shoes (anything her heart desired on the clearance rack), and an ice cream cone of her choice—sugar cone and sprinkles included!

For the first time in a long time, I could confidently say I had won. But deep down, I knew DJ was already plotting his next move. After all, in the eternal war between man and dog, the battle may be won, but the war? The war ain’t over till it’s over.