While walking downtown the other day I had a brilliant idea. Why not buy some stinky fish?

That's what our family calls the tiny dried sardines you can buy in Chinatown. Our neighbour tipped me on this. Her dogs love them. You can buy an enormous bag for five bucks.

Ollie the Pug enjoys anything with a strong smell. And he's crazy about anything remotely edible. So a highly odiferous food like stinky fish is, for him, the equivalent of crack cocaine.

Here's an example of how dried sardines changed his life. Ollie hates to go outside if it's raining. He'll just sit on the porch, staring at you incredulously. But if you toss a stinky fish on the sidewalk, why, he dashes out.

Sadly, as with anything truly wonderful in life, there's a catch. If you're a human being, the smell of these dried sardines is absolutely horrific. It's ammonia-like, practically toxic. So I keep them in a hermetically sealed Tupperware container. And you can still smell them from a metre away.

Recently, I experienced an unfortunate incident related to dried sardines.

It happened at a rock concert I reviewed at the Royal Theatre. Thirty minutes into the show, a bad smell wafted up. A vile vapour. An ungodly pong. The odour was familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time.

"Someone has forgotten to use their deodorant," I decided.

This instantly annoyed me. If I were a politician, I'd enact a law forcing every citizen to apply under-arm deodorant each morning.

It is a contentious subject. Opinions are widely divided on the subject of underarm deodorant. Some folk believe they do not need it. Indeed, they snort contemptuously at the notion, decrying it as a legacy of the repressive 1950s. They'll lecture you on the dangers of aluminum contained in deodorants. Some will suggest the dust from crushed crystals is a preferable substitute. Say no to "the man," they say. Say no to deodorant.

These people are wrong.

So anyway, at the rock concert, I glanced over at a great big guy with a pony-tail next to me. He wore the type of shirt that, in less enlightened days, was called a "wife-beater." He held his beefy arms up high as he clapped. He was oblivious to those around him, as he was grooving hard to the sounds of Jefferson Starship. I became even more irritated. Bad enough to be at a Jefferson Starship concert without having the president of the anti-deodorant brigade moving vigorously next to you.

So I gave him a meaningful look. It was meant to convey the following message: "Could you please put down your arms." Unfortunately, he was the kind of rock concert fan who fails to notice meaningful looks. In other words, the typical rock concert fan. So I gave him another look.

And, finally, he noticed.

"Hey man," he said, pausing in mid-clap. "What's your problem?"

Suddenly, like magic, my attitude changed. I flashed to getting pummelled by some meaty teen in high school. Turned out to be an amateur boxer.

"Sorry?" I said. "Problem?"

"Yeah," he said. Then he sniffed the air.

"Hey, what's the smell? Is that you?"

What? The nerve of this guy. Talk about impertinence. I inhaled.

And then it struck me like a lightning bolt -- with the force of Leonardo da Vinci conceiving the Mona Lisa or Stephen Harper deciding singing Beatles songs in public is a really good idea. I still had Ollie's dried sardines in my jacket pocket. Gingerly, as the pony-tailed one watched, I fondled the bag in my pocket. The top was open.

"Ah, you're smelling my dog's treats."

"What?" he said.

"Sardines, sardines!" I yelled into his ear. "Here, in my treat bag!"

He seemed not to comprehend me. So I pulled out the bag. Of course, a silvery shower of tiny dried sardines spilled out. The big guy gazed at me in amazement, even though Jefferson Starship was at that very minute launching into White Rabbit.

All of this has taught me a valuable life lesson. Never, ever carry a bag of dried sardines on your person. Me? I've switched over to the Snausages Party Sack.