They're only goingharder.
Eau De Dog
Stiles
Idon’t usually try toout-weirdMcCormick. That’s a losing game. The man once used a bratwurst package as a bookmark and called it “meat literature.” But it’s his birthday, and I wanted to give him something special. Somethinghim.
So I buy a cologne bottle off Etsy, a sleek little thing with a fake French label that looks expensive. Then I empty it, boil up three hot dogs in a saucepan, let it get nice and murky, and funnel the water right in.Hot dog eau de toilette. Filtered twice. Chilled.
Classy.
He opens the box on the couch beside me, still in his birthday crown, a crooked mess made from yellow construction paper, that saysKING DOG. He lifts the bottle like it’s a diamond, or I’ve just given him the secret to eternal life.
“Smells fancy,” he says, already twisting off the cap.
“Mmhm,” I reply, sipping my Coke and watching the chaos unfold.
He sniffs the bottle—hard.Then again. And then he lights up like a kid at a concession stand. “Oh my God. Babe. This smells like… like a backyard barbecue hosted by angels.”
I blink. “Really?”
He dabs some behind each ear. Rolls his neck. Breathes it in deep.
“No, like, this isme.It’s savory. It’s nostalgic. And it smells like nitrates.”
I try not to laugh. “You haven’t even asked what it’s made of.”
He ignores me anddouseshimself. Like we’re under attack and the only defense is to smell aggressively like sodium and meat. The room reeks like the 4th of July.
“Mac,” I say, wiping my eyes because I can’t stop laughing. “It’s hot dog water. That’s what you’re wearing. Literal frank juice. From the pot.”
He pauses, then shrugs. “No wonder I love it.”
And that’s it. No horror. No disgust. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, lips a little oily now, like a walking ballpark fantasy. “Yougetme,” he says.
And I do. God help me, I really, really do.
We’re ten minutes into McCormick’s birthday dinner at the Tavern when the therapy dog locks in.
It’s a golden retriever in a blue vest that saysDO NOT PET. A good boy named Captain who belongs to a regular at table three. The kind of dog that normally lies quietly under a booth. But now?
Now, Captain is staring at my boyfriend like he’s the last pork product on Earth.
McCormick is too busy double-fisting mozzarella sticks and birthday fries to notice. He’s glowing, (Not metaphorically.) The candle in his hot dog-shaped birthday cake is reflecting off his slightly greasy skin. He isradiant. And meat-scented.
Captain slinks under the table. His leash drags. The woman he’s with—a nice older lady with a crochet bag—gives a politetug, but it’s too late. The dog is at our booth, nose in the air, tail wagging.
Then he starts licking.
First it’s McCormick’s ankle. Then his calf. Then hisknee,at which point McCormick glances down and grins.
“Hey, buddy!” he says, delighted, as though this dog hasn’t just tried tolick through his soul.
“Mac,” I hiss, “you’re wearingmeat water.You’re literally seasoned.”
“He loves me,” McCormick says proudly. “He knows what’s good.”
Captain licks the back of his hand like he’s taste-testing a vintage sausage. The lady starts apologizing. The waitress is trying not to laugh. Someone at the bar yells,“Yo, is that dog trying to marry him?”
