Smelling Assaults (Cigar Smoke 6-17-10)

I got up the other morning the way I get up every morning. I’m lying on my right side and I have somehow dislodged my attractive C-Pap machine mask and matching designer tubing, and my head is hanging over the edge of the bed. And then I feel a nose on my face and I open my eyes and there is Archie the Airedale, wagging his big, squirrelly tail like a damn outboard propeller. At least one of us is happy.

And then I pet his big-ass Airedale head a little and he comes in closer and puts his nose right next to my mouth. And then you know what he does? He takes a whiff of my morning breath and he backs off. Yes, he actually takes a step backwards, staggers a little and turns his head to the side.

I am not kidding. He is repulsed by my morning breath! OK, I get that. Many people have been repulsed by my morning breath. Marge, a few unlucky women companions, an ex-wife, Boy Scout tent mates, golfing buddies, nurses, sleep clinic personnel. But, hey, it really frosts me when my dog, Archie the Psycho, turns away from me.

Archie does not turn away from, well, other dogs’ butts. Nope, nothing better than taking a whiff of Rover’s rear end. I take him to the dog park and he seeks out butts. He runs from one butt to another. Sniffing like there’s been a jailbreak. He likes the smell of dog butts.

And he seeks out piles of certain things that were formerly in said dog butts. And he sniffs the bejabbers out of those, too. If he had arms, he would wave over his dog buddies. “Hey, get a whiff of this steamer, Rinty.” I know he would. I am sure of it.

I have seen my wonderful dog actually put his discerning nose into dead animals that have lower forms of life crawling in them. I have seem him nose-nudge something that used to be alive. I have wiped things off his nose that would scare chemical hazard teams. And his tail would be spinning.

And yet. And double yet, he has to turn away from only one thing in life: my morning breath.

He just can’t take something that smells that bad. Nope. Worse than dog butts, dog butt results, and worse than mounds of decaying animals with worms in them. Nope, just can’t quite take old Mr. Laris’ morning breath. Sumbitch. I oughta see
how he barks tilted.

OK, I am trying to calm down. Give me a second. OK, OK, I’m ready. After that morning breath episode I decide to take him to the dog park anyway. Even though he doesn’t deserve it. Yes, I am just that wonderful and forgiving.

So we get in the car and I stop at the 7-Eleven for some coffee and a breakfast object so I can enjoy something while I watch Archie smell some new buttmobiles (and not be repulsed.) By the way, do you know why I like to eat at 7-Eleven? Because of their motto: Our Food Will Kill You Just a Wee Bit Slower Than AM-PM Food. Hey, that’s good enough for me.

Anyway, I get my Styrofoam cup of Brazilian bold coffee and I take it out to the car and I put it on the closed cup holder area. Yes, usually I have the cup holder lid open and I put the coffee in the cup holder. Not that day. I get in the car and I turn to tell Archie that I still think he’s a sumbitch, and I nick the edge of the cup, and it falls on my lap. And I spill some lava java on my pants and my thigh inside my pants. Holy scorched skin. That was hot.

But it was not over. As I am picking up the coffee cup I knock the lid off and all the rest of the coffee spills on my inadequately Polyester-covered flesh. I let out this murderous scream. A really loud urgent scream. Nobody responded. (I think they thought I was just eating the food.)

Archie just looked at me and sniffed his own butt.

I jump out of the car and brush off the coffee that hasn’t quite scalded me yet. I take a long defeated breath, and I get back into the car. I scream again. I had sat down in a puddle of still incredibly hot coffee that I had not cleaned up from my first spill. Yes, I had done a three-banger. Scalded myself three times in three different places in less than a minute. This time I got my right butt cheek. Only my wallet saved my other buttock.

With an even more defeated and resigned sigh, I tell Archie that I have to go back into the 7-Eleven to get another cup of coffee. Archie sniffs a couple of times. I think he can smell my burning butt cheek. And he says to me, “Uh, while you’re in there, you think, maybe, you could pick up some Scope?”