Sniffy concentrates — but not for long.
For Sniffy’s snout is super-sensitive, with more than 200 million olfactory receptors lining her nasal cavities. At her frozen present, statuesque Sniffy is standing still and steady, sampling savory molecules aloft on the merest whisper of breeze, struggling to sort out one scintilla among perhaps a billion mysterious scents.
Sniffy ponders: Is that wet camel I sense? Burnt cinnamon? Boysenberries on toast — or cricket excrement on soapstone? Marigold paste? Sorghum syrup? Badly-stained mattress? Pecan hulls and horsehair? Cracked leather from a stale motorcycle seat? That goofy jogger’s cheap cologne? A tuna boat passing on the horizon? The petals of last autumn’s miniature roses moldering under fresh peat? The powder of synthetically tinted chalk? Butternut squash on nylon sneaker sole? Momma’s inedible meatloaf? The six-year-old filthy shorts of an Indonesian eel netter? Sassafras tea? Madonna’s sweaty bustier? A politician? The partially-congealed yolk of an echidna egg? Holly and ivy and a dash of milk of magnesia? Old pennies? A diabetic matron’s purple pantsuit? Pencil shavings strained through cheesecloth? Tulip petals in turpentine? A slightly stale (yet still eminently edible) creamed puff-pastry Napoleon? Hip waders with honey?
Hmmmmmm. Perhaps another snootful . . . .
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