The Dog Days
These are the Dog Days.
In ancient Greece, it was thought that the dog-star Sirius, when rising with the sun rather than alongside the moon, brought forth bad luck and suffering via the arrival of the hottest part of summer - where the days are relentless and the nights unbearable. Perhaps you may recognise these times: the sun beats down, making us sick and irritated; and the still, hot nights bring no comfort. I always recognised the Dog Days by the cacophony of unpleasantness which starts with a burning 8am sun, continues with the absence of a cool breeze at sunset, and results in a night so windless that soundwaves seem to travel twice as far. Cockroaches find their way into kitchens, children are still up and crying at 10pm, the neighbours argue at midnight, sheets are tossed, bats scream, and someone inexplicably revs a motorbike up and down the street. Everything feels tense and on edge, conflict seems to spike, and the world around reaches fever-pitch in its madness.
These are the Dog Days. It’s winter in the southern hemisphere but the Dog Days rage on in the northern half. The world simmers with genocides, wars, famines, environmental massacres, fires and floods, political weaponising of societal issues, and so on, so on, et cetera.
In my life, the Dog Days are taking the form of punishing my loved ones. My father, already with terminal cancer, cannot escape the sterile confines of the hospital due to mounting complications arising from other infections. His beloved cat, Webster, fell sick with sudden and acute kidney failure and could not be saved – poor little Webby never understood why his beloved companion would come home smelling odd for a day or two, and then get taken away by strangers in a loud vehicle, time and time again. Devastated that my father could not say goodbye to his little fluffy shadow of 12 years, I vaguely tried to register Webster as an emotional support animal; I was too late.
My friend ended a damaging relationship that set him afloat with no home or family to anchor him, my migraines lurk in the darkness only to come out roaring for days, my mother sobs in a house that once held six people, and women in Afghanistan do not have a right to both of their eyes. These are the Dog Days.
I find that I cannot wear scent on the days that I am sad. I am terrified of planting within my hippocampus a tainted scent memory. I do not want a teleportation device back to these times. I feel that I would do a disservice to a work of art by associating it eternally with such a horrific time in my life, in the world.
This renders me unable to use perfume as a coping mechanism, which goes against my natural way of being. I have thought; what if I create something just for now, just to get me through this, and never smell it again? Despite my two science degrees, this somehow gives me the feeling of black magic, like some sort of dark alchemy that will bring negative energy and ugliness into the world. Nonsense, of course; yet I remain powerless.
My father cannot smell very well; nonetheless I brought a bunch of eucalyptus to his hospital room. It cheered him up a little. Just in case, I also brought in some rosemary, lavender, and wattle. They’re all shoved into a hospital jug with some water.
His nose is blocked on one side by a feeding tube, so when the other is clogged he has to breathe through his mouth – very undesirable. I brought in eucalyptus oil to try to help clear the nasal passage. I think it helped a little.
I wrack my brains to try to think of ways to use sensory tools to make his existence less unnatural. I get jazz playing in his room, and massage his legs, and hold his hand.
It feels as though we are all hurtling, chaotically and bumpily, ever accelerating, not towards anything but into a hideous spiral that never ends. Everything is temporary but this era of despair feels like an intensifying orbit that can do nothing but feed itself until it is gorged to destruction.
I’m not sure how to smell my way out of this one. I can only await the end of the Dog Days.
