Chetspeak (1): Nose Feast
I was on my feet, gulping down what was left of the chew strip. The Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon was one of our favorites. They had a big wooden cowboy out front – I’d lifted my leg against him once, not good, I know, but just too tempting – and a patio bar in back where my guys were welcome. We went in the Porsche – an old topless one that had replaced our even older topless one after it shot off a cliff on a day I’ll never forget, although I’ve actually forgotten most of it already – brown with yellow doors, Bernie driving, me riding shotgun. Loved riding shotgun: what was better than this? I stuck my head way up, into the wind: smells went by faster than I could sort them out, a kind of nose feast that I’m afraid you’ll never –
“Hey, Chet, a little space, buddy.”
Oops. I was way over on Bernie’s side. I shifted closer to my door.
“And ease up on the drooling.”
Drooling? Me? I moved over as far as I could and sat stiffly the rest of the way, back straight, eyes forward, aloof. I wasn’t alone in the drooling department, had seen Bernie drooling in his sleep more than once, and Leda, too, Bernie’s ex-wife, meaning humans drooled, big time. But had I ever made the slightest fuss about it, or thought less of them? You tell me.
From Thereby Hangs A Tail.
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