Stinky

Early one morning in Olympia, Emmett and I went for a ramble and swim at Priest Point Park. Much to his delight, he found a rotting salmon corpse to roll in. Oh, the joy!

Not a problem for me until the return drive home, Emmett in the back seat.

The stench! Even with all the windows down my eyes streamed in protest. I’ve never smelled anything like it before or since.

I went off to work, leaving Emmett in the yard. As was our habit, Dinah brought Sasha over, Emmett’s fiancée, before she also went to work, a few hours later. When I came home, I was greeted by two happy black dogs, smelling like roses. Milagro!

Turns out Dinah had washed Emmett — inside her house! I could hardly bear to stand near him, let alone allow him inside. “He was setting a bad example for Sasha,” the sainted woman explained later.

Twenty years later, at Maranatha RV Park near La Paz, I’m greeted by another stinky black dog, though his is a mere shadow of the fragrance emanating from Emmett that day. This one drinks three bowls of water and eats a hard-boiled egg before ambling off, curly tail wagging. “Thanks for dropping by,” I say.

All in favor of stinky black dogs?

Aye.