It's OK. He doesn't know I'm talking about him.

Since I'm the new guy & don't really have experience in exposing myself in this manner (important distinction), it's probably a good idea to take my sister's advice. She said that in writing in a journal that everyone can see, it's easier if you pretend you're writing to someone specifically. I've expanded that to include imaginary people. Getting started is difficult but I think it helped. So here's my attempt in that method.

Dear Ndugu,

My dog smells like oatmeal. (Pretty good start if you ask me.)

B.B. is an overweight, oversexed, needy black lab - everything I aspire to be. His size & color go about as well with Nashville heat & humidity as those Canadians I used to see at Cedar Point in mid-August. I'd watch them, full of energy & anticipation, bound into the park over a wet paved thoroughfare already steamy at 9am. Then around 2pm I'd notice them, one by one, being ferried out on a golf-cart-ambulance with heat stroke, singing 'I Feel Pretty.' Sometimes I could hear myself sarcastically whisper, "Amateur." But I'd always be happy to know that's one less person somewhere ahead of me in line for the Demon-Drop.

So to prevent the sun from cooking B.B.'s brain, I've been bathing him more often. And doing so with oatmeal shampoo. But if it's rained sometime in the last week & he's been outside, he just smells like a wet dog that's had a better breakfast than me. And that's a disturbing smell. I'd say it's immeasurably worse than just 'wet-dog.' It's distracting. It's the kind of pungency that could make you forget your own social security number. So genius here decides to bathe him more & more often thinking, "Volume, baby. Volume! Maybe some ammonia..."

No help.

Well B.B. has been walking me in the park more frequently lately. Many times he finds a way into the creeks & ditches & just lies down. Up to his neck in water, he'd be quite happy to remain there until a Milkbone truck goes by. This also sets off the smell. But when he does this there's something I've been noticing. Despite his oatmeal/hippo-house odor, he's got this spooky ability to attract beautiful women. They're mesmerized by him. They say things like, "Isn't he the most darling thing?" And, "Look, he knows we're talking about him." And, "You love being scratched there, don't ya boy? Hey, put that away. Nobody wants to see that."

He's got it made. And, by proxy, so do I. I swear to you, I could be walking him in July wearing moon-boots & a Jim Jones sweatshirt & they'd still want to talk to me & rub his belly. Therefore, I've decided that I won't be trading him in on a newer model this year. His tenure has been granted, you could say. And not only to offset the aroma but also to emulate his appeal, I've changed out all the bottles of Suave on my shower-shelf with Gee-Your-Hair-Smells-Like-Grits.

Hope you are well.

Sincerely,

Max Von Poteet