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Advertisement Oh, to be a dog romping through the hills of Northern Italy in autumn. The clouds are swollen and gray, and the grass is damp and green, and the smell that wafts up as the rain mixes with the chemicals in the earth has to be overwhelming. Oh, the odors: of wet dirt, of dead leaves, of birds in the trees and rabbits in the bushes, of the wool sweater on the old man who hand-feeds you chunks of meat every night. You take off, furry little feet barely touching the ground as you run toward the deepest, dankest scent in the entire forest, the one you have to dig to really inhale. Some dogs get in trouble for ripping up the ground and getting their paws all muddy, but not you. The old man smiles and pats you on the head. You’ll have steak tonight.

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