Nemo’s Nose Knows

I’ve been thinking about how to describe Nemo’s nose. He’s half Labrador and looks like a golden Lab, but his brain seems to be wired more like a hound.

I’ve had Labs before, and they all loved the water. You couldn’t keep them out of it. Nemo is completely different. He prefers to use the pool as his drinking bowl. He hates getting in the water himself, but he’s an exceptionally astute lifeguard. He keeps a careful eye on everyone, and if your head goes under, he sounds the alarm.

But even more fascinating is his nose. He has the nose—and the sniffing equipment—of a hound. I’ve joked that he can smell through glass.

I’ve been trying to articulate how his senses and brain work. Under normal conditions, I’d say he has average-to-above-average sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell. But the moment he detects a scent, something changes. His entire mind seems to reorganize around it. Everything else fades into the background, and his nose develops superpowers.

He can seemingly smell something from a mile away. His nostrils twitch toward the wind as his whole muzzle comes alive, his jowls working as though they’re part of some sophisticated sensory apparatus. His head and body don’t move a bit. Completely still. He becomes almost statue-like, as though every muscle is frozen while his nose is doing all the work. He knows exactly where the bunny is, which direction it’s moving, and somehow seems to know where it’s going next.

And then… poof!

In an instant, the stillness explodes. He’s fast as lightning, and suddenly Nemo and the bunny are nothing but a blur.

I imagine his “mind’s eye” as something like scent-a-vision with Dolby Surround Sound—but instead of seeing in colors, he experiences the world in shades and layers of scent.

For Nemo, a scent isn’t just a smell. It’s a picture, a map, a direction, a distance, and a moving story—all unfolding inside his head through his nose.