Horacescopes: The Sniff of Destiny

Let me tell you something about dogs. People think we’re all tennis balls and tail wags, but there’s more. Some of us are watchers. Some are guardians. And me? I’m a reader. A seer. A sniffer of secrets.

Name’s Horace. I’m a Husky. Yes, I’m blind. No, it’s not sad. It’s liberating. You try living without distractions like squirrels or whatever passes by the window. I see in scents, emotions, memories baked into the cracks of the sidewalk. I know when rain is coming by the way the wind tastes. And I know when something bigger is shifting in the stars.

That’s why I do Horacescopes.

My hooman—her name is Birdie, though I’m not sure if that’s because she sings a lot or because she flits about the house like a jay on espresso—she’s the best partner I could have asked for. We live in a little house with wind chimes, soft rugs, and too many books. Birdie has a shelf just for tarot decks. Some are gilded and smell like old bookstores, others are new and sharp with ink and possibility.

She does the shuffling. I do the sniffing. That’s the deal.

Every morning, we sit on the porch, the one that creaks just so when you lean too far left. She lays the cards out in a fan. I press my nose to the paper until something hums.

It’s not always literal, this scent-picking thing. Sometimes it’s a warmth, sometimes a cool breeze across my snout. Sometimes, a card smells like lavender dipped in sadness. That’s how I know it's The Moon. Or cinnamon and lightning? That’s gotta be The Tower.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This morning, like every morning, we were out on the porch. A cool breeze slipped through the lattice, brushing my fur in waves. I was curled by Birdie’s legs, head tilted to the side like a philosopher dog from a Renaissance painting.

“You ready, Professor Horace?” she asked, voice all sugar and sunlight.

I stretched out one paw lazily, tail thumping once on the wood. That meant yes.

She shuffled the cards with practiced fingers. I could hear the papery whispers, feel the slight static in the air as she spread them in front of me.

“Take your time, wise one,” she said, always letting me choose.

I sniffed left to right. Too much lemon. Too sharp. Not today.

I paused over a card that smelled like stone and spring. Like something old buried under something new. It trembled beneath my nose, just a little.

This was the one.

I tapped it gently with my snout.

“Got it,” Birdie said. I heard the flick of her wrist as she turned it over. “The High Priestess.”

Ah. That explained the scent. The secrets. The layers.

“Well,” Birdie said, “today’s going to be all about intuition and inner knowing.”

I could’ve told her that.

We did a video for our followers, as we always do.

“Good morning, beautiful weirdos,” Birdie said, while I sat like a noble statue behind her. “Horace has selected The High Priestess for today’s Horacescope. That means today, trust your gut. Don't ignore that little whisper telling you to call your sister, double-check your email, or not eat that gas station sushi. Trust the whisper. Horace says so.”

I barked once for emphasis.

The comments flooded in after that. They always did.

“My date got weird last night but Horace knew!”

“My boss lied to me—I could FEEL it. Horace is never wrong.”

“Horace for President.”

Birdie read those aloud with laughter in her voice. I can’t see her smile, but I feel it like a warm fireplace in December.

But not every day is easy.

One afternoon, Birdie got quiet. Not sad exactly. Just… quiet.

She didn’t sing while making tea. She didn’t hum while feeding the sourdough starter. And when she shuffled the deck for my evening draw, her fingers trembled.

I laid my head on her knee.

“What’s wrong, Bird?” I asked in dog.

She stroked between my ears. “I think it’s Mom,” she whispered. “Something feels off. She hasn’t called back. Her texts are short.”

I nudged the deck with my nose. “Let’s see.”

She laid them out slowly. The fan wasn’t as perfect as usual. Cards clumped a little. Her hands were shaking.

I sniffed.

Card one was full of static and old bones. Nope.

Card two? Like wilted flowers in a locked room.

Then… there it was. A card that smelled like thunder after prayer. Like grief with grace stitched in.

I tapped it.

“The Five of Cups,” she said.

She didn’t say anything after that. Just held the card. I leaned against her leg.

“It means sorrow,” she whispered. “Loss. Regret. But… also a reminder that not all is lost. There’s always something left.”

I whined softly.

“Thanks, buddy,” she said, voice thick. “I’ll go check on her.”

She packed an overnight bag. I heard her shove her toothbrush in, zip the bag too fast. She clipped on my leash without saying much.

We drove to her mother’s house. Quiet radio. The kind of music with no words. Just sounds that echo.

When we got there, her mother was on the couch. She’d fallen the night before. Nothing life-threatening, thank the stars, but she hadn’t told anyone. Didn’t want to worry Birdie.

Birdie sat beside her, holding her hand, her voice a mix of scolding and relief.

I sat at her mother’s feet. She smelled like chamomile and peppermint balm and old pain she pretended didn’t hurt. I nudged her ankle.

“You still doing the Horacescopes, dog?” she asked.

I barked once.

“Good. You’re a better psychic than most humans.”

Birdie laughed. It was small, but it was there. That laugh was a crack of sunlight through a storm.

The Horacescopes continued. So did the people.

There was Lucy, who messaged saying my reading convinced her to apply for a new job.

There was Devon, who mailed us a hand-painted deck because one of my readings gave him the courage to come out to his parents.

There was even a lady in Oregon who named her cat after me. Horacette. Bold move.

I may be blind, but I know love when I smell it. It’s in every letter we get, every package, every voice message full of giggles and tears.

Sometimes Birdie cries too. When she reads the stories out loud. Not sad tears. The other kind. The kind with gratitude in them.

But then… something changed.

One morning, the cards were silent.

I sniffed. Nothing.

I sniffed again. Still nothing.

Birdie frowned. “Do you want a break today?”

I whined. Not because I was tired. But because I couldn’t feel any of the cards. It was like they were blank.

We tried again the next day. And the next. Still no scent, no hum.

Birdie tried a different deck. Then another. I sniffed, but they just smelled like ink and paper.

Not like fate.

She started getting nervous.

“Maybe he’s burnt out,” she told one of her friends on the phone. “Maybe he’s over it.”

Over it? No. Never.

I was confused. And I don’t get confused easily.

Until one night, around 2 a.m., when I woke with a start. Something was… wrong. A shift. A pull.

I padded to the porch door, pawed at it until Birdie let me out. She followed, bleary-eyed in a robe and fuzzy socks.

We sat together in the dark.

That’s when I knew what had happened.

There was a new scent in the wind. A card not in the deck.

Change.

Not the scary kind. The real kind. The kind that creeps in like fog until it wraps around your whole life.

Birdie sat beside me. Her hand found my head, even in the dark.

“I know,” she said.

She always knows.

“The cards are quiet because something’s shifting. You felt it too, huh?”

I licked her hand.

“You’re not broken, Horace. You’re evolving.”

I blinked. The world is always black to me. But just then, I felt light.

She didn’t post a Horacescope the next day. Or the day after.

Instead, she posted this:

“Hey friends. Horace and I are going quiet for a bit. Not forever. Just a rest. When you live a life listening to whispers from the other side of the veil, sometimes you need time to recalibrate. Hug your dogs. Trust your nose. We’ll be back.”

Weeks passed. Then a month. We walked more. We napped more. We sat under trees and listened to breezes.

Then one afternoon, Birdie pulled out a new deck. Not tarot. Something different. Round cards, smooth and warm to the touch.

“Oracle deck,” she said. “Simple messages. New energy. Let’s try.”

She spread them out.

I leaned forward, hesitant.

Then—like a lightning bug flaring in the dark—I felt it. A card humming.

Not the old thunder and shadows.

This one smelled like honey and morning dew. Like something just born.

I tapped it.

Birdie flipped it over.

“New Beginnings,” she read.

She looked at me.

I panted.

She laughed. That golden laugh.

“We’re back, Professor Horace.”

And so we returned.

But different.

The Horacescopes had evolved. Now, it wasn’t just tarot. It was scent, memory, song, dream. We started giving voice to followers’ own dreams. People sent in questions. I sniffed a card. Birdie answered.

“Horace picked Flow for you, Melissa in Toronto,” she’d say. “So stop fighting the current, darling. Let it carry you where you need to go.”

People listened.

They always did.

Because sometimes the best prophets have paws.

Because sometimes the greatest truths come not in visions—but in scents.

And because no matter what life throws at you—change, heartbreak, thunder, or rebirth—there’s always a snout willing to guide you through.

One card at a time.

One sniff at a time.

Always yours,

Horace the Blind Husky, Seer of Stars, Sniffer of Secrets, Professor of Horacescopes.

Author’s Note:

If you’re reading this, consider this your own Horacescope. Horace has selected “Trust.” Whatever question you’re holding, whatever worry you’re carrying—there’s a path through it. You just have to trust your own nose.

And maybe give your dog a treat. Horace says it’s good karma.