The Smell of a Dog

Yesterday, while standing in line at the bank, a young fellow came in and filed in behind me. I thought the smell of the cigarette smoke on him would suffocate me. I'm always appalled at the thought that for 19 years (before I quit in 1992),  I smelled just like this young man. Why did I bother with deodorant and especially with perfume? Neither one can wipe out the smell of cigarettes on your clothes, in your hair, on your skin.

Which got me to wondering -- do I smell like dog now? I take my dog everywhere with me. In fact, she was waiting in the car at the bank, wondering why we were going inside the bank rather than through the drive-up where she always gets Milkbone treats. The ladies at the bank are so religious with handing out the treats, that my dog now thinks any drive-up window will bear fruit. When we go to fast food drive-up windows, she stands on the console, tailing wagging furiously, with her sweetest "look how cute I am" face on. Same thing when we drive up to pay our electric bill at City Hall. The ladies at the bank have spoiled her, and they even sent a "bonie" with me yesterday, even though I had left her in the car. Our favorite teller, Sharon, said, "Is Lulu in the car?" When I said yes she was, out came the Milkbone box.

Two years ago, when my dear old kitty died (which I posted tearfully about on this blog, by the way), one of the immediate things that was missing from my life was something soft and furry in my lap. The dog is too big to be a lapdog, and she freaks out if you try to pick her up. She would never dream of jumping into your chair while you're in it, doesn't like sharing the backseat. In short, she can be a little standoffish. So I decided to teach her how to hug. (Did I mention that this is the smartest dog on earth?) I got in the floor, sat cross-legged, and beseeched her to come to me. "I need a hug," I said, and the only way she would allow me to put my arms around her neck was if the whole ordeal paid off with a game of "Duck."

"Duck" involves throwing one of her fuzzy toys so she can race after it, and dive at it like she's going in for the kill. She then runs by squeaking the toy with her jaws, and dodges past, inviting me to try to take it from her. Sometimes there is an intense bout of tug-o-war that follows. This game is great fun to her, and is called "Duck" because her very first squeaky toy was a stuffed mallard that honked.

So I taught her to hug with bribery. A game of duck. A lick in the face that makes me pull an imitation of the Lucy character in Peanuts -- "Aughhhh! Kissed by a dog!" My laughter makes the game of Duck so much more engaging. I believe she thinks when I laugh that it must mean I need to play "Duck."

Anyway... she learned to hug. Now, she comes to me when she needs a hug. And I must hug her tightly and linger, and sometimes when I'm ready to finish, she is not. She nudges into me, head lowered, until I take her around the neck again and squeeze. Hugs. Sometimes several, and dog kisses. I bet I smell like a dog all the time. I know I wear my dog. She's all over my clothes. Her fur falls off of me at night when I bend over to brush my teeth. That's the only explanation I can think of for why her black hair is all over the bathroom sink.

I smell like dog. I know I do.