Once breakfast is done, I sit on the couch in the living room, waiting impatiently for Julia to come home so she can take me on our daily stroll. She has a dog-walking service, and she’s out walking other dogs.

I get my own private walk, ’cause she’s my own private girl.

I can practically taste the storm coming through the open window: the back-of-my-throat tingle, the metallic edge, the fizzy energy.

But it’s more than that. It’s as if the air is up to no good, sneaking up on the world and looking for trouble.

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 edges. Happy smells like bacon ice cream served up in an expensive leather shoe.

You’re going to love every minute of it, but you know it won’t last forever.

the news

Sometimes when Julia and I go for walks, I’ll brake at a corner (corners are the best for fresh news), and she’ll tug and say, C’mon, Bob, there’s nothing there.

Oh, but there is.

Here’s the thing about poop and pee. I get that humans are not into them. I see the bathroom doors shut tight. The embarrassed, downcast gazes.