wet dog

A Story by Kate

drabble about wet dogs?

You think that perhaps, out of anything in the world you could ever experience, dead dogs in the rain would be the worst. Not because you have any deep affection for canines, because you think rain is bittersweet and depressing, and dogs are such loveable dopes. Because you don’t. Dogs are dumb. The rain is wet. There is not much more to it than that. You think it, purely for the smell. The smell, god, it would be so revolting.

Wet dog. Your nostrils pick it up so readily, sniff and contract, eyes narrowing, smothered breath. The smell of wet dogs left on clothes, the skin of the people around you on the bus. To actually be there, with the smell magnified, mingling with the tang of blood, of rotting flesh, and the low, humble smell of mud; being there, in front of it, forced to sniff up huge lungfuls by some vicious ex-boyfriend; becoming engulfed by that staleness, with no escape.

It makes you want to vomit.