The Scent of Glory

In Their Voices
By Philip W. Merten, October 2018
Photo by B.G. WALKER

Photo by B.G. WALKER

At some level, I’m vaguely aware of my human vocalizing loudly and frantically, possibly something about how he’d like me to stop or come back. Hard for me to pick out the nuances of such aural stimuli, not when it’s being eclipsed by the olfactory Hallelujah Chorus emanating from the shrubbery ahead.

It’s coming into focus as I approach, and it is GLORIOUS. Deer have been making up for a winter of bark and buds by hitting the emerging greenery like mammalian weed whackers, and pooping it out as fast as they take it in. The deposit up ahead has been ripening for a while, 10 days, two weeks … Goldilocks, baby, just right.

I’m on it. Literally on it. All over it. And it’s all over me. I am magnificently robed in it. And I am now Lord of the Hunt, Master of Stealth. The creatures I prey on will never suspect their imminent doom, not until it’s too late. Truth is, I’m not all that into predation, outside of chasing flies, but I am a member of the Sons of Wolves Tribe and all that, and I have my fantasies. And this is fantastic! The vet might have taken my gonads, but what could possibly be more orgasmic than this? Oooo …

And now I’m starting to hear my human again. As I emerge from the bushes, I see him right there. He seems unhappy. Wait ’til he gets a whiff of what I’m bringing. There’s no way this won’t brighten up his day.

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