In the land of the freeze where the auroras glow,

Lives a Husky named Buster, the King of the Snow.

But Buster possesses a talent obscure,

A gaseous emittance no nose can endure.

When he lifts up a leg and releases the bloom,

In sixty short minutes, he can empty all Nome.

But the locals don't panic, they don't even pack,

They just smell the air and say, "Buster is back."

The vapors expand with a toxic decay,

Turning glaciers to slush in the span of a day.

A Titanic-sized berg, jagged, massive, and white,

Simply melts into soup from his tail-wind's blight.

The jet stream then carries the odor afar,

To gardens in Tokyo, past every star.

Where Bonsai fanciers, tending trees with such care,

Catch one distinct whiff of the Buster and despair.

Dishonored by scent clouds of such magnitude,

They weep for their maples, completely unglued.

"To breathe such an air is a shameful taboo!"

So, they reach for the blade and commit Seppuku.

But back in the living room, plot twists unfold,

For Buster gets blamed for stories untold.

His owner, named Bob, had a black bean burrito,

And let out a squeaker—quite incognito.

His wife, eating cabbage, contributes a blast,

That could shatter a window or strip down a mast.

They wrinkle their noses and stare at the rug,

And point at the innocent, slumbering lug.

Then they wave at the air with a theatrical cry,

"Oh, Buster! You monster! You’re making us die!"

Though his own lethal clouds can dissolve a steel door,

Poor Buster takes credit for a thousand times more.

(Sincere apologies to Nala, our resident woo-woo pack leader, who is as innocent as the brown and yellow stained snow!).