Skunked

On Sunday night, Scooby woke me up because she saw one of the cats and ran off to chase them. I went back to sleep, sort of, and maybe ten or fifteen minutes later I heard a really strange clicking sound and turned on my iPhone light.

On the floor, between my dresser and my bed, Scooby was in a standoff with a skunk.

I like to think I’d be the kind of person who would take a bullet for my dog but apparently I’m more like the dad who runs out of the movie theater when a gunman starts shooting, leaving his wife to cover their child with her own body as a shield. That must be awkward when they are finally reunited, I mean if they all live that is.

I didn’t consciously choose to be this kind of person, but at the sight of the skunk I reflexively went running out of the bedroom which is really our converted garage, through the laundry room, and up the steps to the kitchen yelling Skunk! Skunk! Scooby, C’mon! Aaghhhh! Skunk.

We don’t live on a farm. We live in a normal town in a normal but small house but had developed bad habits like leaving the back door open at night to let in the breeze and so the dog could go to the bathroom without waking us up.

In the eleven years of living here, we hadn’t had any major problems except a rat once and a raccoon who I mistook for our grumpy cat cat until I walked by it eating some cat food, then saw our cat sitting on top of the dryer also watching it eating some cat food.

The point of the story is that you haven’t experienced a bad smell unless you’ve worked in a funeral home, nursing home, strip club, or you’ve had a skunk spray your dog and your bed and your laundry basket full of your dirty clothes and your dresser and your nightstand and your rug and your cheap but favorite Ikea chair and all of your random books and crap piled in teetering stacks around your bedroom.