Kasey has the worst breath of any dog I’ve ever met, up close and personal.
Even by the appallingly low standards of her canine companions everywhere — and the phrase “dog breath” wasn’t invented for nothing — Kasey’s foul mouth stench plumbs new depths. Recently she hopped onto the couch next to me, looked at me, exhaled, and singed my eyebrows off. On our walks, Kasey’s snorts and snuffling leave wide swathes of New Albany grasslands withered, scorched, and smoking. If her breath had a physical manifestation, it would be a deep purple-black, oily and oozing, full of eyeless, wretched, wriggling things, like something channeled from the lowest pits of hell and used there to torment the most evil and lost souls.
We’ve tried to solve this problem by giving Kasey Milk-Bones and other “breath improvement” products. The last time we tried it, however, the Milk-Bone emitted a high-pitched shriek, leaped from my hand, and went skittering across the kitchen floor and out the patio door, never to be seen again.
After I’ve stopped gasping for a clean breath after exposure to one of Kasey’s putrid exhalations, I find myself wondering how Kasey’s breath can be so much more noxious than Penny’s. They are served the same food at the same time, and yet Penny’s breath, relatively speaking, smells like roses. I’ve concluded that Kasey’s evil breath must have developed as a kind of evolutionary advantage. If she were freed from her leash and allowed to chase and eventually corner a rabbit, her breath no doubt would immediately paralyze her furry victim and allow Kasey to close in for the kill at her leisure.