9780008390662

on the poetry of stink
Of course, not everybody can smell what I’m smelling. My nose is a zillion
times more powerful than a human’s.
Dogs are experts at odor. Students of stink. We analyze the air the way
humans read poetry, searching for invisible truths.
And we don’t just smell the good and bad stuff that people notice with their
substandard schnozzes. The usual suspects: popcorn and lilacs and freshly
sharpened pencils. Diapers and brussels sprouts and freaked-out skunks.
No, our noses get it all, the whole shimmery double rainbow in April.
Humans, they’re lucky to get a cloudy day in November.
We get that molecule of roast beef dancing on the wind fifty miles from the
tidy kitchen where it just slid out of the oven.
We get the cherry lollipop under the back seat of the Honda sixteen cars up
on the highway at rush hour.
We get things humans can’t even dream of getting. We’re the ones who find
the miracle earthquake baby cuddled in her crib under tons of rubble.
We’re the ones who find lost hikers in the wilderness after a quick whiff of a
sweaty sock.
We can even tell when someone’s sick. We can smell seizures and cancer and
migraine headaches. Try getting your guinea pig to do that.
We smell feelings, too. Sad has a sharp scent, with an undertone of
sweetness. Sad smells like being lost in a winter forest as the sun goes down.
And happy? Happy is the best, but there’s a touch of wistfulness around the