Pup-Head

My cousin came down here with her daughter and boyfriend a few years back, and the guy bonded with my dog in between family movements. I liked that guy, but one thing he said actually became kind of oddly special to me.

He was commenting on the striking personality of Siddy, and scritching and being nice on her, and she was loving it. He looked at me and he said, "her head still smells like a puppy."

Sid was probably eight or so by then, if not more - and she is twelve now, bless her totally-ignorant-of-chronology bones. And her head still has the sweet-ish smell of a little baby dog.

I often say my dog's got good stink; and I do actually have an affection for the warm, grassy smell of her paws in summertime (well, some summertimes; this year has been too dry for her to pick up scents in her fur), the mellow musk around her neck. But her head is remarkable. Definitely sweet. She smells like a puppy to this day.

Lolly is not my first baby-scented beastie. Ex and my first cat, Gert, had chinchilla-soft fur and a pleasant fragrance. Our big old orange boy, Byshe, smelled inexplicably of baby powder all his life. He never got into my perfumes; as far as I could tell, the whiff was somehow innate to himself - little Smike didn't share it, though they were all but littermates. I don't even smell like baby powder, not like he did.

But Lol is a special case, not least because dogs are supposed to smell like dogs, for one - and because she does have a doggy smell about her ... but her cranium's pure sweet.

She's not allowed to kiss my face, but I'm often to be found up next to hers. The little patches where she used to have a mask, stretching up from her eyes to her ears. That flat, velvety spot where she's so warm, where the muscles stretched across her skull make a little square expanse on top of her head just made for scritching and resting your face quietly next to. (She has another muscular spot, between her front legs, the front of her chest, which is one of our favorite places for me to pet her - where the fur meets in four quarters to a tiny twist in the middle of her fur. This spot is the warmest, most reassuring place in the world to put your hand. And she likes it too.)

To go along with her puppy smell, Siddy has a best friend of only three or four years old; our esteemed next-dog neighbor, Scout. Scout often reminds me of my little canine niece, the middle/furry child, the one who was replicated a few years ago, blown up a little bit, and put in the house next door. Scout and the Lolly play like rambunctious three year olds together, rampaging like fuzzy little maniacs and then flatly (quite harmoniously) ignoring each other to death. They get along perfectly, and love each other to death.

Scout keeps Lolly running, and playing - more by far tha I ever could do for her - and as a result, the tiny little creaks she was developing before regular play dates have almost entirely disappeared. She had been on punitively expensive supplements she didn't like (but was so good about eating for me, bless her), but I haven't given her one in so long I can't even remember now. She'd tripped on the steps a time or two, and showed signs of not seeing well. Now she's every bit the thumping galumpher she ever was - and though she might not spy all the cats, she sees her breakfast in the morning -and Scout - and that's what counts. We're lucky in our neighbors, and overtly grateful.


***


My dog will be thirteen in six months to the very week now.

And her head still smells like a sweet little puppy dog. Seems only fitting. That's what she'll always be.