I don't think we really do understand how good a dogs sense of smell is. I mean, really understand it. We make light of it when they pick up the half sandwich in the trash or locate the lone piece of kibble that fell behind the refrigerator two weeks prior. But seriously, it's like magic. I was taking my dog for a walk the other day, and he just stopped. Didn't bark. Didn't growl. Simply gazed into a hedge as if it held secrets. Out of course, a stray cat had visited the spot before. Hours before. He caught a whiff of time. I mean, come on.

And I begin to wonder what is the world to them? Like, if every thing has a scent trail, a memory, a past. Perhaps that's why they become so overwhelmed at the park. It's not simply grass and trees and squirrels. It's all the things that have been there. All the dogs. All the snacks. All the sad and excited times left behind in sweat and breath and whatever else we leave behind without even realizing it.

At times, I think they might be able to pick up when we're brokenhearted. Or fatigued. Or faking it. You ever catch how they'll burrow up beside you at the end of a day? I don't think it's because you've been out of sorts. I believe they can sense it. Their nose did.

And sure, maybe I'm idealizing it. Maybe so. Maybe they're simply. more attuned to the things we lost sensitivity for.

I don't need science to tell me that my dog notices more of me than I notice of myself at times. All through that nose. That awe struck, wiggly, always sniffing little superpower. It's ridiculous. And lovely. And, actually, kinda humbling. Makes me want to stop and sniff at things too not actually, perhaps but you get the idea.