Skunk Patrol

Apparently God in all of his or her humor was concerned I might be lacking material, what with the girls in college and my uterus gone.

Last Sunday night, we arrived home from a weekend in Seattle. It was dark and drizzly and we began unloading the car in the driveway in front of our house. Hazel, our dog, went on the trip so she was thrilled to be back frolicking freely in familiar territory. In her earnest sniffing explorations she discovered a skunk hiding by the side of a house.

Skunks are stealthy and unnatural-looking when they move. They sort of float and are very fast and direct when challenged. There it was, a black, motor-controlled wig, jerking its way across our lawn, charging Hazel and doing the spray-down.

Literally one second I have luggage in my hands and I'm walking to the house, and the next I freeze while my brain is registering, "Is what I think happening, happening?" The air is filling with very potent, acrid skunk spray and Hazel is doing a doggie flip-out.

When dogs are sprayed by skunks, they sort of reel back, hop around a bit, then frantically slide their face across anything nearby; the lawn, the shrubs, a porch mat, or maybe - before you realize what is happening - your nice Michael Kors raincoat. They might also bolt back into the car they just exited ten minutes ago and wipe their face across the back seat.

As chaos erupted on the front lawn, I kept walking into the house, closed the door, and stood in the living room. I stood there for a minute, looking around at our furniture, humming. That didn't just happen, I told myself. It's 9:00 pm on a Sunday night at the end of a long weekend. That didn't just happen.

I opened the door and came back out. Yes in fact, it really did happen. There she still is, whining and sliding her face across the lawn, and luggage is everywhere. The air and my coat, everything smells wretched.  Even John, lacking in a sense of smell since a nose injury at the age of two, comments, "I think I smell burning rubber." Yes that, mixed with rotten eggs, sulfur and a strange splash of gasoline.

John at least is mobilizing, trying to get the dog into the backyard.  In solidarity, I decide after maybe the whole three minutes this has taken to transpire, to mentally change gears, stop unpacking and get the home-remedy ingredients rounded up.

Now more engaged, I search frantically online for the skunk-remedy recipes, then jump into the car to get to the store, but oh wait, I forgot.  It's like the skunk is still in the car, spraying with gusto. And the stinky raincoat, yeah, still wearing that too.  At the store in the check-out line, it didn't take a rocket scientist of a cashier to figure out what my life was all about right then with my skunky-self, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and soap. And beer. I was checked-out with amazing speed and thoroughness.

Back at home, we mixed our home remedy and gave Hazel a bath. There was a lot of grunting involved, a whining dog and frantic energy expanded in many directions. The bathroom became a watery disaster zone of black dog hair, dog slobber, towels, wet clothes, rags and buckets, all covered by a wet skunk smell.

Finally, the ordeal was over. Hazel found every place not already wet or stinky in the house to shake her fur and spray skunk water everywhere. We cleaned up slowly, went back to where we left off two hours ago and brought in the rest of the luggage. She slept on the porch and we collapsed into bed.

This burst of chaos actually got me thinking quite a bit about the difference between my life now and when our kids were toddlers, when chaos was the daily hum. I used to live with predictable unpredictability every hour. A skunk spray here and there? That's for rookies. Living a more chaotic reality for years, day in day out, changed me and changed me in good ways that I don't want to forget.

More on that later but for now, grateful Hazel is mostly skunk-smell free, the luggage is unpacked and life is back to normal, which I was told once, is just a setting on a dryer.