The Boss has told me before that the word was coined by two Australian scientists, and they derived it from the Greek petra, meaning ‘stone’, and ichor, meaning ‘the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods’.
Now, I'm not saying I'm some sort of canine lexicographer, but when you've spent four score and four dog years listening to humans jabber on, you develop certain opinions. And my opinion is this: petrichor is an ugly word for an exquisite thing.
The Boss tried to redeem himself by mentioning that the actual compound responsible is called geosmin, the scientific name for what we’re smelling here. And geosmin sounds honest, like the name of a wise earth spirit who lives down the back of the garden and knows where all the good bones are buried. It doesn’t dress up in fancy clothes and pretend to be intellectual.
The Boss also omitted to mention the sharp, clean smell that comes with the rain — that electric tang in the air. Ozone, coming from lightning strikes — it’s a fine word that crackles. It’s the combination of geosmin and ozone that delivers humans and dogs alike that rush of breathable bliss.
Mostly, though, the Boss shares my fondness for words that sound like what they mean. Susurration, for instance — the whisper of leaves when the maples are shedding on an autumn breeze. Say it slow and your mouth whispers and rustles. It's a word that knows where it’s going. So does mellifluous — a way to describe the joyous rolling song of the rufous whistler. Or the lullaby sounds of the boobook owl.
On the other paw, cacophony — now that's what happens when the cockies mob up after the harvest and two thousand of them wheel over the river. The missus loves it when they all bank at the same angle in that late afternoon sun but, to my mind, it’s deafening — and it’s not worth it.
I prefer The Boss whispering things sotto voce when we’re on the morning walk, although mostly he’s just hushing me up so he can listen for an azure kingfisher or a grey teal down on the river.
Then there’s that magic hour in the evenings, when the light filters low through the river trees — crepuscular, the Boss calls it, although I prefer ethereal myself — when everything turns softly golden and the air cools quickly. It’s my favourite time of day, when the hares and kangaroos start to move, and a dog feels compelled to investigate.
The Boss says I'm in my liminal years now, whatever that means. Something about thresholds. I think he means I spend a lot of time standing in doorways trying to remember if I want to go out or come in. But liminal sounds dignified, like I'm not confused but rather contemplating something profound about the nature of inside versus outside.
Some other words for agreeable ideas: chiaroscuro for the way sunlight and shadow stripe the river late in the day. Lambent for the soft glow of the fireplace I’m now allowed, in my dotage, to doze beside on winter weekends. And there’s palimpsest for the outside dog yard and kennels, which bear the layered traces of every dog who came before me, if you've got the nose to read it.
And I’ve always liked the aurora for the southern lights, the luminescence of the river under this waning gibbous moon and the gossamer threads of the spider webs on winter mornings.
But petrichor? Please. Give me geosmin any day. Give me words with weight, with texture, with the good sense to sound like what they mean.
Petrichor. Honestly. Woof!
