I don’t know if this is true or not, that a dog smells the way we see, but his olfaction is so much richer. It’s both more broad and more deep: a dog is aware of the tiniest gradations of airborne chemistry; he can pick out a man’s stink from the cacophony of ragweed, mildew, cottonwood bark. But we share in some of that glory. To wit: the lust I feel when I smell Fendi has nothing to do with the actual smell, but with the channel of carnal power that is the scent memory. In full-cocked, trigger-happy youth the bond with the body is strong.
Scent wells up, wafts across, melds with the nerves and overcomes. Sight is much less intimate: popcorn fumes from a distant microwave are more of a distraction than a short skirt and a highly-stockinged thigh. You can avert you eyes from that beckoning length of leg, but you’ll have to leave the building to escape the popcorn’s buttery insinuations. And even then, its shadow lingers in your sinuses, a sultry gastronomical siren.
We’re beholden to smell in ways we’d refuse to admit in good company, or even with close associates and friends: a lover’s sweat, a diesel’s outgassing, the funk of a turning river. And we claim cats are crazy when they stick their heads into well-worn shoes for a long and wonderful whiff. Maybe on the face of it this is why we spend so much on sinus medication: happiness is a healthy nose.
And, of course, smell is one of the harder senses to write about. There are some individuals whose senses actually mix together. A musical note has a color. A word has a distinct taste. I wouldn’t be surprised, however, if this mixing of senses was linked with language’s immense power to call up vivid images in our mindsight.
Melted butter, an all-time favorite smell of mine.