Seeing the world through Louie, Duke’s basset hound.
Let me tell you something about noses: all y’all take ’em for granted.
Duke’s nose? Purely decorative. Good for sniffing out trouble, maybe, or the day-old pizza I stashed in the laundry. But mine? Baby, I’ve mapped entire neighborhoods on scent alone. Catalogued every cat, wad of gum, and half-eaten chicken wing between here and Ocean Beach.
So when he cracked open that jar of Wavy by Baba Ku, I knew something was different.
Berries. Sweet berries, like those freezer pops the neighbor kid always “accidentally” drops on the sidewalk. A beautiful, cosmic coincidence seemingly in tune—in synchronized frequency—with my fourth walk of the day. Every day.
But under the forbidden glucose, pan-sizzled butter. The kind that pops like it’s proving a point.
Then came the gas. Sharp. Peppery. That whoa smell that makes the back of my neck tingle like there’s no-park-today weather rolling in.
Duke didn’t say a word, he just gave me that crooked, half-dazed smile and reached for the grinder.
I snorted my approval and parked myself at his feet. Like always, I wanted a front-row seat to the ritual.
Now, Wavy ain’t much to look at. Even I can see that, and I’m colorblind. Crumbly little green rocks. Rough around the edges like Duke’s feet after mowing the lawn.
Not pretty. They’ve seen things no man or beast should witness.
But once Duke loaded the Volcano and got the balloon filled, the room shifted. The air went tropical. Pineapple and passionfruit, mixed with something soft like the lavender growing in that angry old man’s lawn down the block.
He really does not like me. Still can’t figure out why.
I rested my head on Duke’s thigh to wipe my jowls clean. He just passed the bag to my mom, muttering something about Buckaroo Banzai being underrated as hell, then leaned back and let the world roll over him. Didn’t even notice the drool snaking down his pant leg.
I know the signs. That little sigh. The way his shoulders drop, like sandbags hitting dirt. The pause before he starts talking about druids or old Ethiopian jazz records, to no one in particular. That’s how I know we’ve entered “the good place.”
He’s gonna make a snack and drop half of it on the floor.
I just know it.
Thankfully, Wavy from Baba Ku didn’t knock him out. Duke stood up, stretched, and grabbed his notebook. The tell of a strain that clears his head and gets him moving. Rare. Usually, it’s one or the other. We’re either napping or yapping.
Me, I stayed put and tried to look hungry.
Once, he looked at me like I might’ve farted.
I didn’t. That’s just my regular smell.
But that’s our rhythm. Him with the words, me with the vibe check.
Evening came before any of us expected. The light went soft and gold—the kind Duke likes. He always takes pictures of me during what he calls “golden hour.” Says it brings out the hazel in my eyes.
My mom laughed from the kitchen. Some dog down the street barked a heinous insult I filed away for later. He’s not getting away with that. I keep receipts.
And Duke?
Still floating. Still smiling. Still scribbling like the world might need to hear what he has to say.
I know he’s gonna make me listen to it. Guaranteed.
Wavy by Baba Ku may not have flash, but you don’t need to shine to stand out. Sometimes all it takes is doing the job, and stinking up the place in the process—while still leaving things better than you found them.
Which, now that I think about it, sounds a lot like me.
— Louie
Basset Hound. Roommate.
Resident Scent Sommelier.
