Sleeping with the entrails of a dead walrus

They say that smell is the oldest and most powerful of the human senses.

That's really unfortunate when you own a dog. Especially a dog that sleeps on your bed. Especially a dog that likes to sleep on you, on your bed.

The smell on Newman built up over weeks. I guess it was like storm clouds off in the distance. Fun to watch. Oh they creep along so slowly. I have nothing to worry about. Today is a perfect day to golf.

Suddenly the clouds are above you, the lightning hits and you're a piece of Denny's breakfast toast.

So went Newman, who is the storm, the smell is the lightning and my olfactory (the toast) lays everyone off and shuts down for good. (Danger: mixed metaphor)

I've never smelled the entrails of a dead walrus. But somehow I sensed Newman smelled like that. Plus I had to find an interesting comparison, since I'm a successful, high-priced writer.

I've smelled some bad things. Things that certainly qualify as entrails. One summer, right near our cottage, a dead moose carcass rotted away over several hot months in the summer. It was so much fun watching Satan play around in the evil aroma.

I once visited the Harvey's bathroom on Jarvis Street. I was waiting for a hooker. No, wait a minute. For a burger. I couldn't approach the hookers, on account of their spending lots of time in the bathroom, and thus becoming a walking Harvey's bathroom with high heels and thongs.

I don't think Harvey's calls it a "bath" room. Vomit shit hole room I believe the sign said.

Newman loves to roll around on the ground. Yippee yee, what a fun dog. Isn't that cute?

I'm sure he's aware that's deer shit and he will wash and exfoliate soon enough.

Newman doesn't come with the washing app. Newman is not the new iDog.