A Dog’s Best Friend

Have I ever told you how much John loves our dogs?  Well, this weekend I found out he loved the dogs so much I had to leave.   After twenty-two years of marriage I have finally gone home to “Mom.”   Don’t worry, all is well now, but do let me tell you about the last forty-eight hours.

Late on Friday evening John decided to take the children and the dogs on a nature hike to listen for coyotes in the area.  We’ve heard many in recent nights and with the moon full and children’s eyes wide, off they went.

I sat bolt upright.  “Oh my goodness,” I screamed, “the house is on fire!  I smell horrible smoke!” 

He chuckled.  “No honey, Chester (one of the dogs) got sprayed by a skunk and Taylor’s in the shower with him right now bathing him with peroxide and baking soda.  I picked up Chester, so that’s how the smell got on me.” 

At this point, let me digress.  I have an extraordinary nose.  I can smell mildew before it forms, I can smell flowers from across the room, I can smell the air and tell if it is going to rain, and I can tell when Taylor needs to clean his aquarium without ever walking in his room.  My mother says I could make a living using my sense of smell.   With this gift, however, there is also frustration.  I am always the one that finds the offensive ‘whatever’ that no one else can find.  Sometimes I wish I was blissfully unaware of the smells around me.  In fact, at the moment that John hugged me, I was assaulted by the worst acrid smell I have ever smelled in my life.   It overwhelmed me, my mouth turned dry and my stomach turned over.  I couldn’t swallow and I couldn’t spit.  Every breath worsened my misery.  John took one look at my face and turned and ran out of the room, realizing his absurd error.

In a split second, I knew I had to get out.  As I ran down the stairs, Taylor ran out with a towel wrapped around him and tried to stop me.  “Mom,” he frantically yelled, “Don’t take another step.  Stop where you are.  It’s much worse down here.”

Briefly considering leaving my home forever, I stumbled into the night, grabbing my purse and a change of clothes.  Amazingly, the night air didn’t smell at all like skunk.  Just my home and I did.  Still gagging from the smell on me though, I decided that I would make an escape and drive to Mom’s home, just seven miles away.  Yes, in twenty-two years of marriage, this is the first time I have ever “gone home to Mom.”

I had called Mom on the way and she greeted me at the door, listened to my ranting and gave me a towel and lye soap.  Luckily, Mom does not have the gift of smell and couldn’t smell how bad I was, but Hayley, who was spending the night at Grandma’s, could smell me from twenty feet away.  The shower and soap worked.  I got out and began to put on my clean clothes but they smelled just as bad as I had.  I asked Mom to burn them or bleach them, I didn’t care which. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, John and the children spent the night in smell hell.  Chester had been sprayed by the skunk when he ran into a nearby cornfield.  John, who is in love with the poor dog, brought him in to bathe and comfort him.  Though Chester threw up and was miserable, he survived.

On Saturday, Hayley and I loaded up on deodorizing supplies and returned to the scene of the crime.  John said he was used to it (did I mention he is a smoker?) and said he couldn’t smell it anymore.  But, after washing, sprinkling, deodorizing, vacuuming, scrubbing, airing and spraying, I still can.  Would you believe that even my checkbook in my purse smelled like skunk? 

Lest you are worried about us, please know that I have finally forgiven my man, but not until he heartily apologized for bringing the dog in the house in the first place and hugging me out of my sleep with his skunk covered self.   I know its cliché, but I cannot resist.  Truly, a man’s best friend is his dog.  Or is it, a dog’s best friend is his man?

© Sallie H., 2007.  All rights reserved.