I brought Enzo to the doggy daycare under coral pastel skies, leaving filled-out forms with the woman who remembers him from when I last chanced the experiment a near year ago. Underneath the deodorizers is such a concentrated dog smell that even if I stay only moments in the building’s lobby, I am, hours later self-consciously sniffing my hair to see if this phantom-limb of a smell finds its source somewhere on me, surreptitiously having seeped-in the way a short-haired middle-aged woman once described it when a few high school friends and I were awarded a trip to a pig farm and had to strip and shower before entering and before leaving: “The smell, you cannot wash it away, you just get used to it.”