Sniffed

 

I have spent some time recently with Offspring #2's foxhound who is known for her aggressive sniffing. She loves to sniff. She lives to sniff. When you take off your boots, she will stick her snout deep in the empty boot to sniff the smell your feet left. She will sniff your crotch from the front and the back. Beware of this dog when you yawn because she will sniff your tonsils if she could. She will sniff your hands, your coat, your bag, your pants, your arm pits, your ears, your socks and your car keys. She loves to sniff. As a member of the honorable hound family, it is her job to sniff. But there comes a point in the day where you have reached your limit of being sniffed. If I put up a blocking device like a magazine or a pillow or a box and hold it between myself and her sniffing nose long enough, she will quit. Dealing with this dog reminded me of my old dog, Ruby. She liked to sniff too. She wasn't the best behaved dog but she knew that if I crossed my arms, I had enough. I remember once I was sitting in a chair by the lake with three of my friends. Ruby was off her leash and in a sniffy mood. I crossed my arms. I told my friends to cross their arms. All four of us crossed our arms. Ruby looked at us with crossed arms and got the hint. She laid down in the shade and left us alone. I know dogs need to sniff. I accept the needs of a dog to sniff. Dogs also have to accept that I, as a human, have a limit to the number of times I get sniffed per day.