I had not realised the true purpose of the shower.
We entered the shower smelling largely as we should. The Owner, admittedly, still bore more than a hint of chemical geranium tempered with chloroform, which she seems to preload herself with every morning. I was ripe, a dog in my scented prime, a michelin-starred dog, the ringingly deep and glorious must of compost gorgeously blended with the firm thrust of well-fed fox, the faintest overlay of abandoned pizza adding just a soupcon of interest to my right front paw whilst the piece of dead ox I keep in my bed just in case flavours my left flank, and both ears have been carefully edged in well rotted pondwater.
We emerged from the shower completely new people. The Owner now smelled delightful, a melange of fox, pizza, compost, ox and pond that any pointer would be proud of. I could show her off in the park like that any day.
I, on the other hand… what can I say?
There appears to have been an exchange of scent.
Is it only scent or is it, and I hardly dare think the words, something more fundamental? Am I still the Moral Dog? Am I, even, still the Dog?
I smell of roses.
Descartes said we cannot doubt of our existence while we doubt…. I think therefore I am. Or so I thought. John Locke saw reason as linked to personhood but I fear my personhood may have washed down the plughole. Where is the innermost dog now? Where is dignity? Where is the soul of a German Shorthaired Pointer, lodged in and bound to the olfactory glory that I gathered and layered so painstakingly since the day we met? Who does she think I did it all for? And what was the point?
I no longer remember. It was another life. It was another dog. She might as well put a pink bow round my tail and call me Fluffy. I can never look Caspar in the eye again.
Hergest the Hound
I am a dog of many thoughts.