The Secret of Smell

I have often wondered how do dogs smell? Not the physical act of smelling, but how the brain registers and categorizes smell. A rose for example.  To me, roses smell old and bitter.  Of course they elicit thoughts of romance and love, but that is purely conditioning.  How would a rose smell to Harrison, though?  I guess this could be applied to any animal and any sense.  How does chocolate taste to a hippopotamus or silk feel to a bird?  Without reference it is difficult to comprehend. 

Does my best friend experience the same flood of memory at a whiff of Stetson as I do?  Impossible.  Perhaps similar images and memories rush through her brain, but she cannot remember hugging Popsie as we met him at the airport or snuggling up on his mattress while watching a movie with the family on Sioux Trail.  Popsie wore Stetson.  And washed with Irish Spring. 

That is the trick to being a writer.  You must take this completely individual idea of smell or taste and present it to your reader while keeping your fingers crossed that they will go with you.  You must make them taste with your character or at least believe that she is having an honest reaction.  A woman born and bred on cayenne laced crawfish in Louisiana is probably not going to balk at a tandoori chicken or fragrant curry.  Although an argument could be made for spices from other regions affecting her differently, more poignantly, than those she is used to, her palate is used to some heat and she would therefore not be knocking over glasses desperate for a gulp of mango lassi to cool her inflamed tongue.  The same goes for smell and touch. 

Each person has their own way of experiencing – a certain chain of thought linked to individual memories and emotions.  A writer must find a way to convince the reader who hates veggies that perhaps, just for a moment, they are the most wonderful food on the planet.  Even if they are brussel sprouts.