A wet dog in the morning, a wet dog at night

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, September 17, 2014 10:58 PM

Damp, musty, old and a touch of mystical swamp. This is the smell of a wet dog. It doesn’t matter if said dog is wet in the morning, at noon, or at midnight. The fragrance remains the same. Soggy. It matters not if said dog has recently had a bath. The permeation of the house is complete. This is the smell and fragrance of my house today and I suspect for the next several days.

Mister Coop de Ville has just returned from a walk in the rain. Armageddon is upon us, at least according to the news reports, which tend to exaggerate so we’ll see, and the skies are weeping quietly. It’s a soft rain that’s falling, nothing damaging; nothing that will cause the rivers to fill and overflow; nothing that will even fill the washes that rise and fall throughout the city. No, that will come much later. Those same weather reports say the worst will arrive around 6 pm and we will require an ark by 6 am. It’s gonna rain, it’s gonna pour; the old man is gonna snore. A little ditty from childhood that just popped into my head and one that, in my adulthood, defies logic. What old man? God? Harumph.

Cooper loves to walk in the rain. He splashes merrily through the puddles. He pushes himself up and under trees and bushes, ensuring that his head and especially his ears get the full brunt of the wet. He trots along no matter how hard it’s raining. He doesn’t seem to care. This is a stark difference from Maguire who hated the rain and took it as a personal affront. It was insulting to him that he had to go out into that; to get his feet wet. How dare you humans do this to me.

He also hated baths and acted as if he was getting waterboarded. Cooper has no problem with a bath. He has no problem being wet. And he is very wet right now.

Kevin and I are wet, too. It’s not cold here, about 72º as I write this, but when we left on our walk it was raining pretty steadily. I have light sweatpants on, and I wore a jacket with a hood. Kevin also wore a jacket. We both wore baseball hats. When we got back into the courtyard of the house, we opened the door and brought out the towel we had placed in the entrance way so we could at least towel-dry Cooper. While he has no trouble getting wet, he really hates getting dried off. But dried off he got before racing through the house, taking the corner into the kitchen at top speed, sliding out a bit ­– you know how slick the roads can be when they’re wet – before regaining traction and flinging himself headlong into his water bowl.

Slurp slurp slurp. Wet inside and out.

We are now in my office and my damp, musty, mystically soggy pup is sleeping next to me. He’s still damp, though will be dry within the hour. Throughout the day, he’ll need to go out back for a quick pee and the smell of wet dog will waft a bit. Later today, before Armageddon truly begins, we will walk him again. He’ll be good and wet and swampy and soggy and happy as can be.

And I will light candles in order to mask the musk. That’s how to live it out loud with a wet dog in the morning and a wet dog again at night, happily and contentedly. Damply.

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