The Smell of Love?

Tonight I sit listening to the happy cackle of my 88 year old grandmother's laugh. She is wearing a bright pink cable-knit sweater and sensible thick-soled beige-colored Sass shoes. As usual, her hair is pulled up into a tidy and attractive French twist. My mom is here too. She's wearing a light blue long sleeved t-shirt that reads "Don't Pet the Employees" and her feet are bare. Her shoulder-length hair is wind-blown and tucked behind her ears. We are all relaxed and sincerely enjoying each other's company in a rented condo with a view of Yaquina Bay. A fire is burning in the gas fireplace and the room is just a bit too warm for me, but probably perfect for my grandmother. My mom's small white Jack Russel Terrier, Roscoe, is sleeping sprawled out on the couch between my mom and I. My big black lab, Rudy, is asleep at my feet. The room smells very faintly of heated dog poo (don't ask), and I'm so in love with the moment that I almost don't want the smell to dissipate.