I've smelled wet dogs. I often smelled a wet dog named Sophie. She was my family's yellow lab from 1990, when she was 2, to July 2004, when we gently helped her pass away. We got her when a co-worker of my dad's got divorced and needed to move to a smaller place; the co-worker had room for only one of his two dogs, and Dad had wanted a yellow lab, and we are indeed dog people in my family, so...
My high school-age self knew nothing of this until the BOLLUMPH BOLLUMPH BOLLUMPH of seemingly more than four feet pounding the floor came echoing through our house and up our second-floor stairs one afternoon in early 1990, because Sophie had arrived and was exploring her new home and was seeing and smelling all these new things and new people and was all Dug-y. "I JUST MET YOU AND I LOVE YOU!" (Oh, and I've had Dug and Up on my mind since yesterday, too.) Sophie was not wet that time. She was wet plenty of times afterward. As dogs get.
Sophie became a 75-pound lap dog. (We have photo proof of this somewhere.) Very affectionate and funny dog. Not bright, but you can't have everything. I helped with her care, running her and walking her and throwing balls and Frisbees for her. She stayed puppy-like and enthusiastic for quite a long time, and stayed adorable past that stage.
Wet dog is a very particular smell. You smell it, you don't forget it. Not too hard to be reminded of it, even at a moment by yourself years after the wet dog you've known the best has died.
"The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog." -- Ambrose BierceYou're easy to remember, Sophie. I'm smiling right now.