A wet dog
The weather was of the little-drops-of-water-here-and-there sort, a sort of damp, night weather. The light from the street lamps was dribbling down in pools on to the pavements....
There was very little room; the coats on the pegs were shedding their humidity. The place smelled of dog, of wet dog, of a wet dog who had been smoking a pipe.
—Raymond Queneau, The Last Days