Fireside Sentinel

People enter. They carry with the a cacophany of aromas. My family seems nonplussed by their arrival, so I resume my vigil by the fire, allowing my mind to wander on the olfactory voyage proposed by the infusion of unfamiliar scent into my all to familiar surroundings.

The tall one that entered first, likely the alpha of their pack, smells most strongly of the others who followed close behind in the entryway. Yet he also carries a host of other aromas, which whaft my way as he passes by. Nary a glance in my direction, but I don’t mind. After smelling him, I would not have wanted his hands anywhere near me. My pack may be fine with him but that doesn’t mean I will tolerate his touch, with its scent of his own pack intertwined with the most intimate smells of another pack and far more exotic cuisines than his own had enjoyed. Underpinning it all is the sterile stench of alcohol. Though I like the warmth it generates on human skin, I have my fire and no need to seek out the borishness that often accompanies that scent.

The older female entered next. She was fragrent with the odor of pups, combined with the more traditional bouquet of the kitchen, and not just of the confection she had brought with her, but of a myriad spices. I now understood what could drive humans to new lands just to find more spice.

The pups came rushing in past her, nearly spilling her culinary masterpiece, which ordinarily would have made me at least jump up in attention, lest she lose a crumb and subject our home to potential invasion of vermin. Yet the warmth of the fire and the calming scent of her composure betrayed a professional level of experience with such things, allowing my watch to resume unperturbed.

The pups scampered onward past the adults, redolent of vigor. The smallest of them spots me and and tentatively makes her way over. She was scrawny, with frizzy hair and so many spots on her face, I had to lick her chin to ear just to make sure her brother had not played tricks with a marker on her. They lacked texture and tasted indistinct from the rest of her, and not a wiff of alcohol on them, so she was just spotted. Clearly the runt of the litter, I decided to call her spot. I was patient with her in that moment, careful to display my indifference as she tugged on my face and ears. If twelve long years of life have taught me anything, it is that the runts leave the best spoils under the table at meal time. My patience would yield a hefty return in due time. For now, I'll continue to stand (or lay) guard by the fire. I still don't like their alpha. He smells of deceit.