Old dogs and old men smell bad.

I know that because I am one and have an older dog.

If my Calista weren’t with Kay at the Lake, she would have to get wet doing her business at some point.

And when she does, she smells like an old dog.

Older men don’t have to get wet.

It could be because we pop a butterscotch or peppermint.

Or, maybe it’s the Captain Black from the Old Briar. A pipe that has been with us for 50 years.

Perhaps it is the sports coat we have held onto since the seventies. The one that we can’t bring ourselves to give away or have cleaned.

Because somehow the scents of our many adventures cling to it like lint to a black T-shirt.

Some older men, like my brother Bert, smell like Old Spice, and others like English Leather or Brute.

That old sport coat of mine? I could almost swear I smelled Puji every time I wore it.

The dog who “hated” men but became my wingman in the seventies.

The dog that loved riding in my old Porsche. The car that badly needed an Earl Schweib paint job.

The dog who sat in my lap every evening as I smoked my pipe and that eased my anxiety and tensions just being there.

The dog who rode shotgun and that everyone who passed us waved at.

I gave that coat to the Salvation Army years ago. The smells went with it.

And yet, that picture brings back the smell of a dog nobody wanted and a young man who was terribly conflicted.

Old men and old dogs may smell bad.

Forgive both of us. Life is as it is.