I stop the car by the open field and Cody jumps from the backseat. The beat-up retractable leash gives him 18 feet of roaming freedom.
Cody, ¾ Lab and ¼ terrier is ultra-submissive. I can’t take him to the off–leash dog park because other dogs sense his fear and almost get in line to hump him. They may have never dominated any other dog in their lives, but Cody fits the bill.
Due to this early treatment, Cody has developed fear aggression. If a dog approaches, Cody’s hackles rise. His placid expression gives way to bared teeth, growls, and shrill threatening barks. He pulls hard on the leash in the direction of the dog. What’s going on in his doggie brain? “I’ll kill you before you kill me?”
I don’t know. After several attempts with trainers to change this behavior, I’ve given up, and I take him places where he won’t meet other dogs. The field is perfect.
Cody sniffs a dried sunflower from last season, lifts his leg, and heads down the path. He usually takes his time, examining each weed and patch of grass with infinite interest.
But today is different. Cody trots straight ahead at the end of his leash. I plan to take our usual route, but no, Cody pulls sharply to the left. Now he goes right, cross-country through teasel and tumbleweeds, stepping around prickly pear cactus.
I drop the leash. It trails behind him, and I know he can’t run too far with the heavy handle dragging through the weeds. I follow, keeping sight of him.
And then I gasp.
Cody has found the source of the scent that lured him. A large dead deer lies on its side. Spotted with flies, its eyes gaze upward, beautiful even in death. I grab the end of the leash and pull Cody back. We walk around the deer. The rear end below its tail has been eaten out and parts of the head, but otherwise it is intact. Would a coyote leave so much?
I can now smell what was obvious to Cody five minutes ago. He wants to stay, to get closer, maybe lick the bloody face, but I pull him away. “Leave it,” I command. “This way.”
He minds, but looks up at me, a question in his eyes. “Yes, you found it,” I say. “Good boy.”
We return home, and having given up walking both of them at the same time, it’s now Mollie’s turn for her walk. A long-legged 80 pound Lab, she is the exact opposite of Cody in personality. She’s never met a stranger. Man or beast, they are all her long lost best friends. She greets everyone with a wagging tail that reverberates through her body. Her eyes light up, her mouth opens in—there’s no other word for it—a smile.
I usually take this social pet to the off-leash dog park, where she spends a joyful half hour meeting and greeting everyone she passes. Sometimes she waits by the gate as dogs and owners arrive, giving them the full expression of her happiness to see them. “She’s the Welcoming Committee,” I joke in explanation.
But today I have an appointment and I don’t have time to drive over to the dog park. I will take Mollie around Quail Lake. The field is not an option this time. I do not care to experience Act 2 of “Dead Deer.” Anyway, it’s hot and Mollie never misses a chance for a swim.
We circle the lake and are headed home when Mollie runs down to the shore one more time. She snatches something in her mouth and begins to chew it with gusto. I run to her, pry her mouth open, and see a large bony, incredibly smelly dead fish. She tries to save her marvelous find, but I hold her collar with my right hand and reach down her throat with my left, pulling it out and tossing it into the water. No vet bills this time.
Walking home, the stench is overpowering. It must be her breath. There must be parts of the fish stuck in her teeth.
As soon as we get home, I give her a rawhide chewy. Maybe it will help. I take a tiny sniff of her mouth, avoiding a full inhalation. Hmm. It’s not bad, so where is the smell coming from?
OMG! It’s my hand, my left hand. I turn to the kitchen sink and lather my hands with dishwashing soap. I rinse. It’s still there. I have some antiseptic wash in the drawer.
I use that. No help. The smell of the dead fish seems to have permeated beneath my skin into my cells.
I go up to the bathroom. Lavender soft soap. Dial bar soap. Straight rubbing alcohol. More lavender—leaving it on this time, soaking my hand. Better, but still perceptible.
I’m almost late for my appointment. I have to go. What is the strongest smelling lotion I have? Victoria Secret’s Pear Glace. I rub it into my skin and get in the car, sniffing my hand from time to time enroute.
Scientists say that dogs possess up to 300 million olfactory receptors in their noses, compared to about six million in humans. The part of a dog’s brain that is devoted to analyzing smells is, proportionally speaking, 40 times greater than ours. So all that sniffing your dog engages in on his walk, followed by a leg lift or a squat, is not just marking territory. It’s an exchange of information. Call it pee-mail.
Poet Mary Oliver says her dog has a university in his nose. I think of my two dog walks today and where their noses led them. The smell of death—so unbearable to humans, yet to other species it says, “Let’s eat.”
***
Lucy Bell’s 35-year teaching career included over twenty years as a writing consultant. Her latest book, Coming Up, A Boy’s Adventures in 1940s Colorado Springs, combines narrative non-fiction with the history of the black community of Colorado Springs. It features rare historical photographs and the watercolor illustrations of Linda Martin. Release date: October 14, 2018. Her children’s novel, Molly and the Cat Who Stole Her Tongue, published in 2016, is available at Poor Richard’s Bookstore, Colorado Springs and Amazon.
