As my neighbour and I tramp through the fall fields checking on our cattle together, I comment, "I think I must be part dog. I have the most sensitive sense of smell of anyone I have ever met."

"Why do you say that?" challenges Marty. I know he thinks his smeller is pretty good too.

"I can tell by smelling bales of hay what their nutrition content is, whether the hay was dry baled, if it was the first or second mowing of a pasture, what kinds of grasses or grains made up the hay, whether it was wet cut and had to be turned several times before being baled, whether it got wet after it was baled and how mouldy it is, whether it is still safe to feed to my cattle."

"Well, any farmer worth his salt can tell whether hay is mouldy," Marty scoffs slightly.

"I can even tell if the hay comes from the prairies or the Atlantic seaboard. Hay soaks up the smells of its nutrition from the soil it was grown on, its climate, and if your nose works right, you can tell if your animals will be healthy or nearby starve by eating it.

"Yes sir, I know my hay and there's nothing more satisfying than breaking open a bale of hay in the winter and having the rich summer smell of well-cured hay rise up and cloud around your head."

Marty knows I've farmed in Western Canada as well as here in the Maritimes, so he accedes. "Sounds like you do know your hay. Maybe you are part dog," he laughs.

That reminds him. "I love to go hunting in my virgin forest with my black lab. When me and Hap take our first step into my woods, the moss is a foot deep. The first steps we take break open the fermenting, sour smell of undergrowth and then the sharp, vinegary smell of the top green layer of moss hits too.

"In the early morning there is a scent to the ground fog too. It is fresh and almost salty like a sea breeze. Later, when the sun pours through the tree tops and burns up the fog, the trees themselves give off their individual odors as I brush past them - the pine trees have such an invigorating smell that I step more lively.

"And then I'll see a tiny lady slipper flowering, growing in the rot of a downed limb, and its shy head hanging down. Sometimes when the sun lights up one of the lady slippers, I can't help but get down on my hands and knees to smell it. Just as I am savoring its delicate, almost undetectable perfume, Hap usually comes bounding back, all sweated up and stinking like wet dog again. That smell tightens

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