As long as it is not moving or alive, Mr. Wombles sniffs it. He strains the leash on our walks, lingering at lamp poles, nose-deep in piles of rotting leaves, searching across grass. At sections of fence, at empty bags, at the bare sidewalk, he points his nose and snuffles. On average, he sniffs fifteen things a minute. On a half hour walk, this adds up to some 450 discrete items of nose information. Some he deems worthy of a reply, and pisses on them. And while he is an eager explorer of the smells of things, he has no interest in other dogs. He walks past them hurriedly, without a glance.
At home, Mr. Wombles naps. He naps on our laps, or naps at our feet. When we leave, he naps by the door. When we pick up the leash, however, he leaps with excitement, makes hamster noises, and proves impatient if we don't get down the stairs fast enough. This is what I have observed. The outdoor land of smells, apparently, is his joy. Smelling is, apparently, his life's work. This is what I have concluded.
A dog's sense of smell is legendary, a million times more sensitive than a human's. If I can discern, with my amateur human nose, a range of powerful smells from dog poo, to rotting leaves, damp earth, and fresh-cut grass, his dog nose must offer encyclopedic volumes of professional-grade information. Is a well-aged MacDonald's hamburger wrapper a Dickensian novel to him? Does it speak of tragedy, comedy, or romance? After ten seconds of intense sniffing, what does he conclude?
Yes, I know -- If I have to ask, I'll never understand.
I have a fear that his sniffing is the olfactory equivalent of reading People Magazine. He's after the street gossip, especially the news available in other dog pee-- what Trudi Terrier has been eating, if Polly Pekinese is pregnant, what disease Franz Furripants has contracted, etc. And when he pees in reply, he is bragging about his own diet and health.... I got salmon last night, motherfuckers....
It would leave me wounded to own such a shallow dog.
His lack of interest in living dogs, however, puts this fear to rest. Were he a practiced and enthusiastic gossiper, he would be interested in up-to-date news, offered by the living dogs themselves. He would stop and sniff their behinds, and not ignore them. He would never miss a nose bump. I see these dogs, straining at their leashes to get at another dog.
But Mr. Wombles sniffs alone.
Instead, I think he pursues dog wisdom. His sniffs are an examination of the historical olfactory record. He needs time and space to evaluate each smell, reach conclusions that are not clouded by the moment. He is pursuing a higher understanding of the essential quandary that is life. Mr. Wombles wants to know, and understand why we are here. Each smell is a single piece in a gigantic puzzle. With four walks a day, and approximately 1800 sniffs per day, he must have assembled over 650,000 pieces to the puzzle in every year of his life. As we guess he's 7 years old, that's 4 1/2 millions sniffs.
What has he learned? What can he conclude?
I don't believe he has attained dog wisdom yet. I don't see the signs. When he no longer runs outside to sniff some more, but sits, lotus position, at home, meditating, then I figure he will have reached the edges of dog wisdom.
What will he do when he attains dog wisdom? Will he teach other dogs? Will they listen?
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