Smelling the Sky Like It was Yesterday

I grabbed a used pair of Levis from the hamper.  I did a full day of yard work on Saturday and assumed it was the pair that’s dedicated to pulling weeds and scooting against the earth.  But, I’d grabbed the pair that I wore Sunday when I took Sweet Georgia Brown and Cali Surfer Girl for a drag around LSU lake. 

It’s routine for me to get home, walk down the half flight of stairs and put on clothes for our immediate daily walk. There's no chance for negotiations. The two of them have formed a union chapter and know their rights.  They are staring and waiting for me to get on with what they’ve been waiting for since I put on my work clothes and left this morning.  

Cali doesn’t throw her head forward to beckon me out of the closet but moves toward my knees and smells the denim that’s wrapped around my thighs.  I think that’s weird, but I remember that she is smelling yesterday—the other dogs that brushed me, the pollen that’s everywhere, the air, and maybe even the sky. She’s half here and half back there on the path we explored.  This is the gift of a dog’s smell. 

I thought about how that experience is so much like sensations that humans bring to first dates.  Everything might be new, but former sights, and maybe smells, compete with “now.”