One of the necessary tools in this trade is a well-developed sense of smell. Almost everything I buy must pass the sniff test because certain scents can be neither eradicated nor disguised. Who wants a pillow reeking of mothballs or cat. 

I honed my sniffer skills on the front line of a war with stinky boys. Call me Inspector Javert but no one gets away with anonymous passing-of-gas around here. If someone in my kitchen or worse, in my car, cuts the cheese, my nose is attuned to certain nuances that allow me to identify the culprit. It is to the point now where my sons are like Jack Donaghy who informs Liz Lemon, "I only pass gas once a year. For an hour. Atop a mountain. In Switzerland."