The Smell That Follows Death

As the years have passed and worn out my fur, I’ve grown to understand why men don’t distrust each other much. Time is a cruel thing, and the more it takes away my sense of smell and sight, the more I believe I admire humans. I was young and reckless when Fabian took me in, only about two months after I was born. He probably saw himself in my small and confused eyes, in a way I couldn’t have known back then. The day was cold, the freezing wind taunting the hidden sun. I lowered my ears in cowardice, my legs forcing me back as I yipped confidently, despite of my tiny frame. Fabian shushed me, his coos were gentle and I gave in soon enough. He held me in his hands, lifting me up like a newborn, giving me the impression that he would drop me at any time. We were face to face, and my fear faded at his warm smile. I licked his nose and he laughed, my tail wagging despite myself. His arms were the most comfortable I had been up until then, and the rumbling of the truck’s engine sang me to sleep.

It was a long trip from the city to the countryside. I slept through most of it, and whenever my eyes fluttered open, I felt Fabian’s hand on my back and head. When we stopped, he opened the door for me and I jumped out onto the dirt. I was happier than I’ve ever been before, the smell of nature as a whole now with me. The city was a maze and reeked of sickness, while my new home felt just right— as if the soft bed that Fabian sewed had been waiting for me before it was even made. I explored each corner of the old house, the floor boards only creaking at Fabian’s steps and not mine. He watched in awe as I ran around, and I had never felt so cherished. It was as if the place itself was a gift, and he had waited all day for me to unwrap it.

He was proud, that I could tell, despite just meeting me that morning.

I feared that my tail would hurt from constantly swinging side to side, and yet I wouldn’t have minded if it fell right off, for the overwhelming joy would’ve cancelled it all out. I took in the smells, tracked them down and cataloged them in my little head. The small spot of mold on the wall smelled damp and earthy. The food on Fabian’s plate smelled precious, like the far away treasure it was. My food smelled pleasant as well, dry but full of flavor. The crickets and roaches smelled like a nasty mess, but since I could tell they bothered Fabian, I would willingly search the scent to take them out.

There were pleasant smells, tolerable smells, and the bad smells. The smell of a rainy morning or the first breeze of spring was pleasant. The smell of Fabian feeding the chickens or the tractor turning on were tolerable. The smell of strangers cars’ passing by and hungry wolves were bad.

But I was about two years old or so when I found the worst kind of smell— a dead animal. It was a sheep, only a little older than me, its belly gnawed open and lacking everything inside. It was a horrible sight, the carcass of a fellow mammal, so brutally discarded after being taken apart.

“This is a part of nature,” Fabian had assured me. “Part of the cycle. It’s only natural.”

I took a step forward in curiosity, and the smell hit me like a ton of rocks. It was intense, so overwhelming that it numbed out the rest of my senses, and yet I could not put it into words. It was exactly what I could’ve imagined for a corpse to smell like— expired flesh and grounded bones, rotten and broken apart by force and time. I could not compare it to any other scent, and its wretchedness matched its source. I retched, my tiny back arched and my companion laughed.

I blinked once or twice, and next thing I knew, Fabian and I were all grown up. He of course aged differently to me, grew into an older but better man. In my case, my body felt too heavy to carry sometimes. I would waddle my way around, with slow and ancient steps.

My feet would finally make the floorboards creak, which was the only change I was proud of.

I became bigger, my fur was thicker and my yelps became louder barks. I still chased around the sheep eagerly, despite how the exercise made my chest ache a little. I became wiser and more perceiving, but my senses were beginning to fail me. I couldn’t see that far off anymore, and sometimes I would sleep through the rooster’s morning call. But what I mourned the most, and still do, was my sense of smell.

My favorite parts of this farm life were spending time with Fabian and the wide variety of scents I could remember and learn. But the latter became less frequent, for my nose outgrew me and was covered with white hairs. As much as this brought me down, I tried my best to not let it show by remaining as energetic as a pup. But Fabian knew me better than I knew myself, like the wrinkles on his palms. He would give me more treats than usual, less scoldings and more pets. At about three years old, I was allowed to sleep on the bed with him. I would curl up on the mattress and next to my dear friend, soothing each other with our matching, soft snores. If I were to say that I love Fabian more than life, it would be wrongly phrased, for he was life itself and all I had ever known.

I was turning fourteen years old when a sudden visitor entered our home. My age was a milestone for a farm dog, since most didn’t live past ten, and I suppose this made Fabian kinder than usual, for he took the stranger in. The man walked oddly, as if his body wasn’t aware he was moving at all. He breathed heavily, his skin pale in a way not any human’s should be. His steps were heavy, making the floorboards screech as if they were wounded.

But what stuck me the hardest was his smell— it was familiar and yet different, like a twisted version of something I couldn’t quite name. It angered me for some reason, and I would find myself barking at him, before Fabian would shush me into compliance. My dear friend, in his infinite patience, fed the man and offered him spare clothes. He believed he was a passerby, and we were sure he would leave soon to his home.

He stayed with us for nine long, exhausting days.

For as much as my nose had been failing me, I was haunted by the stench of the man in our guest room. I couldn’t brush away the feeling that I had sensed it before, but even my memory was fading away with age. All I knew was that it was a bad smell.

After the second week, the sheep were going missing. I immediately noticed, and I knew Fabian did as well, but he made no comment.

The night settled in, and the air felt thick with malice. Then, I was woken up not long after, and not by a confused rooster, but by the sound of the front door creaking. I jolted by instinct and ran towards the noise, as I had been trained to do. Fabian shifted in his sleep, but didn’t follow me in my chase. The cold breeze hit my tired eyes, which were quickly fixed on a tall, lanky figure.

It moved with no rhyme or reason, stumbling like a toddler. Then, I heard it— his bones were cracking, rearranging themselves for each new step. I didn’t yield in fear, instead I began to bark again, for I quickly recognized him to be the man that had made our house his home.

After so many years of waiting and yearning for my nose to be of any use, it finally identified the stranger’s smell. My mind flashed back to when I was young, about two years or so. I could see it so clearly again, the red-stained skin and the empty eyes.

It was the worst kind of smell. The creature reeked of death.

My barks became growls and snarls as it approached, the sound of rotten flesh squelching as it came closer. I didn’t flee, but I didn’t try to run and attack it. The air felt colder as my body shook, fear swallowing me whole as I remained frozen. I began to whine like a wounded animal, something I had never done before, for Fabian never harmed me. The creature was ready to tackle me down, and I knew it. My tail hid between my legs and clarity set in. I was ready to lie down and die.

Then, my eyes were snapped back open when a loud bang rang through the night, sending the birds nearby flying with sharp cries. I looked at the creature again, and its head was shot smooth off.

Fabian ran down the short steps, dropping the shotgun onto the ground to wrap his arms around me. He shushed me, cooed at me like it was the first time we had met. As if I were the same terrified pup he picked up so long ago. We were both scared again then, and now I understand that it didn’t make us weak. I licked his face and whimpered as he pet my white, worn out fur.

I understand humans the most now, more than my own kind. I believed it to be foolish, the idea of taking a stranger in. Now I see it’s not naivety, but a small hope that there is still some good out there in the world.

I believed the creature we called a guest was a bad smell, a bad man, but now I know it wasn’t a breathing, living man at all. I don’t believe weakness is bad anymore. As Fabian hugged me as if it were the last time, cleaning off the blood splattered on me, I understood that men trust only when they believe the other to be human as well.