Never to Old for an Olfactory Workout

My 13-year-old pooch’s playtime is limited by what she’s capable of doing these days (those darn back legs won’t take instruction from her anymore) and by what she’s interested in doing. Running alongside other canines means injury; toys get no more than an acknowledgement from her. But one sure way of engaging her in a pleasurable activity is to let her sniff as much as she wants on her walks.

Last night on our final outing for Sunday, the pooch stopped at a corner. This has become habitual for us—this stopping—and draws all sorts of comments from passersby. To onlookers, it appears that she’s too tired to go farther, or she’s misbehaving and I don’t know how to control her, or I’m kidnapping her. But those who have spent time with geriatric dogs know it’s an age thing. It can take a lot of coaxing for me to get her to make a turn. Once she does, she’s fine until we reach the next corner. (Thank goodness we have unusually long blocks in this neighborhood.)

However, in last night’s case, once I got her started in the new direction, she made an abrupt about-face back to the corner, nose to the ground.

Ah. Something had caught her nose’s attention. Something really important. I was reminded of this passage from Paul Auster’s Timbuktu, a unique tale about a homeless poet, Willy, and his faithful canine companion, Mr. Bones:
“[I]f Willy happened to tug on the leash before Mr. Bones was ready to move on, before he had ingested the full savor of the turd or urine puddle under scrutiny, he would plant his legs to resist the yank, and so unbudgeable did he become, so firmly did he anchor himself to the spot, that Willy often wondered if there wasn’t a sac hidden somewhere in his paws that could secrete glue on command.”

I let the pooch lead me east, and while she alternately vacuumed the sidewalk and desperately searched the area, I saw what she could only sense: a raccoon. It crossed the sidewalk ahead of us and ran down an alley.

I tried to hurry the pooch along so she could catch a glimpse of it, too, and then a second raccoon crossed in front of us into the alley.

The pooch missed seeing that one as well. But it didn’t matter to her—she could SMELL them. She could smell them and the scent was glorious!

It had been a banner week for the pooch’s senses: a bunny, an opossum, a skunk, and two raccoons. I don’t mind these detours—investigative sniffing keeps her young at heart and in my world.


[Raccoon pic from the Global Action Network Web site; skunk pic from Jim Buchholz’s Wild Wisconsin Web.]