Dogs live in a reality where scent is truth, and you are never just a face or a voice. To them, you are a shifting landscape of chemicals, a living weather report of fear, joy, hormones, and hurt. That “rude” nuzzle into your most private space is, in their language, the deepest courtesy: the place where your body speaks the loudest and clearest. They are not trying to shame you; they are trying to meet you as you are, without costume or performance.
This same instinct is what lets them curl beside you moments before your panic spikes, or nudge you away from danger you haven’t sensed yet. They recognize the storm in your sweat, the ache in your skin, and they choose, again and again, to stay. To be sniffed is to be seen beyond pretending, loved on a level you can’t control, only surrender to.
