This is a commentary about the slow lane, about the slowing of time since I suffered a severe brain injury while skateboarding with my dog. This is a blog about recovery; about our '82 VW Westfalia. It's about writing, surfing, camping, married life, bleeding ulcers that make you feel old at 32; about family, friends, and my dog Artie; it's about cruising in fourth gear, getting passed by every car and learning to appreciate every second of it.
"Hey does this shirt smell?" I asked her before throwing the shirt at her face.
She grabbed the shirt and sniffed the area around the arm. Then she made that face, the one where she closes her eyes while trying to cover both nostrils with her upper lip.
She didn't need to say anything. But then again, why wouldn't she? It gives her joy.
"Yeah, it smells. It smells like you rubbed Old Spice on the shirt, trying to cover up the body odor. Nasty."
I laughed. What else is there to do? I laughed not only because Aimee acts as my personal odor-picker-upper, but also because I will be tossing shirts, moldy towels, and shoving rotting food in her nose to see if it is safe to eat, for the rest of our lives. Why this woman stays with me, I have no idea.
As for old Sniffalufugus at thedailysmell.com, turns out after an operation to attach her deviated septum she lost her smell for a few days and couldn't smell her couch which she knew stunk of wet dog.
I know the feeling. Sometimes when I pick up Artie's shit on our walks I fear that some pooh touched my hand, though all I can do is wipe my hands on my pants and then have Aimee smell them later.