At 10:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night, right in the face and all down his chest and front legs. Though scrubbed with dish soap and vinegar for an hour, both of us exhausted, he still smells like burnt balloons. Especially now that it’s raining. The winter woodsmoke smell of my home has been replaced with something just as strong and way less pleasant.
You should have seen his face the morning after when I wouldn’t touch him. Broken hearted. I hold my breath and kiss his head.