Scent of a Manny

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Plagued by insomnia in the wee hours of this morning, I thought I might enjoy curling up with a book on my dog's favorite corner of his favorite couch. It was just another episode in my mission to overcome the emptiness of his absence, to maybe stop expecting to see his head pop up whenever I entered a room.

Slowly but surely, physical evidence of the valiant blind dog who had occupied my house and my heart for nine years is disappearing, but I still feel a bit surprised each time I realize he is no longer there. My first official act of closure was to pitch his little metal food and water bowls, along with the towel I kept beneath them to absorb some of the mess. Next, I lugged the various bags and cans of prescription and holistic diet food and treats to my car, intending to donate them to a nearby shelter. It isn't safe for me to go anywhere near an animal shelter yet, so the food remains in my trunk but, at least, out of sight. I tucked his leash, collar, and the bright green St. Patrick's Day beads he had been wearing the day he passed away into a drawer, the drawer filled with assorted dog-walking gloves and plastic grocery bags for poop pick-up.

Despite all my efforts, I am assaulted constantly by reminders of my loss. Manny's picture is still the wallpaper on my phone, and I cannot let it go. On a shopping spree at Target with my daughter yesterday, the register spit out a coupon for dog dental treats, even though I purchased nothing related to a pet. No matter how emphatically I try to unsubscribe, I continue to receive daily emails from the place where he got his baths. Dogs walk by my window all the time, and I have a moment of panic, wondering how Manny got out. When I walked into my bedroom last night, a shoe tree that Manny had once toppled was lying on the floor, shoes strewn everywhere. I assumed my blind dog was the culprit. My daughter suggested there may have been an unequal distribution of shoes. Buzz killer.

Back to this morning's insomnia. I truly believed curling up with a book on Manny's favorite corner of the couch would be liberating. The light in that particular corner is good, and it is the corner where I can lean comfortably on my left arm and have my right hand available for steadying a book or penning in answers to my New York Times puzzle. The cushions have been well vacuumed; the insidious layer of dog hair is gone.

All that is left, it seems, is Manny's aroma, and I use that word to be kind. Had Manny not been my dog and my house not been my house, I no doubt would have crinkled my nose at the distinct smell of dog that permeated my living space. But, with the exception of a few really bad days, I had become immune. To the dismay of anybody with a normal sense of smell, I would bury my nose in Manny's stinky coat, unfazed. Love induced blindness -- or, more accurately, anosmia. This from a woman who cannot sit anywhere near the bathrooms in a restaurant because she gets disgusted by the faint aroma of disinfectant.

Yes, I was unfazed by the smell of dog when it was actually accompanied by my beloved dog, but now, the stale odor of Manny in the corner of the couch, without Manny there, is oppressive. Gross, actually. There are only two possible solutions: sanitize the couch or get another dog.

Against my better judgment, I have been scouring the Internet, looking at breeds that sort of resemble Manny but not completely. Boxers and bulldogs are my picks of the moment, although the video clip someone shared -- of a bulldog's joyful encounter with a leaf blower -- has put boxers in a comfortable lead. The ones I am looking at are awfully cute and awfully expensive. At the prices I am seeing, I would repurchase Manny in a heartbeat, blindness and health problems and all, but for a puppy I have yet to meet I am not so sure.

It seems more prudent, right now, to get the couch cleaned. It will certainly be cheaper, but that's not really the issue. I am just not ready to fall head over heels in love again.