We had a…situation.
I flipped the back-porch light on, opened the door, and watched the dogs scramble to complete their 6:00 AM rituals. They didn’t know what hit them. A skunk marched out to confront the enemy who had dared to storm her territory. She hiked her tail and with military precision, fired off one shot and nailed two dogs.
They cried and whined like cowards while shoving each other trying to get back through the door. I stood my ground. The house was on lockdown, but the smell was already infiltrating. Putrid fumes made my eyes water. My last meal was trying to force feed its way up my esophagus. The smell was noxious and permeating everything.
I quickly discovered nothing you buy will actually get rid of the aroma from your dogs. Pet store shampoos and treatments cleaned my wallet but not the suffering beasts. I was told to use tomato juice, but it just turned them orange. After scouring the internet, I landed on a home remedy of dish soap, baking soda, and peroxide. Our dogs were now orange with blond highlights.
Our canines are slow. Mentally. And physically. Every time they went outside they stood side-by-side in a show of solidarity. Apparently, the strategy to divide and conquer escaped the capacity of their collective brain power. They lost three more skirmishes.
Leaving the house required a plan of action with precise timing. We needed a plan. We were living life like a Jason Bourne movie. Could we make it to the car? Could we get to the barn? We were darting from our house and pressing our bodies against trees, outbuildings and vehicles. Poking our faces around the sides and scouting the area to see if we had a clear shot to the next point of safety. The striped general had taken complete control of our lives. We looked like idiots.
My husband couldn’t take it anymore and decided to take up arms. The standoff required a safe distance and hours of patience. In the bed of the truck. According to my husband, every time someone drove by, it disrupted the timing of the general’s appearance. That and our daughters sporadically hollering out the door, “Hey, Dad, did you get her yet?”
After four days, the target made her presence known. She spied him shouldering the rifle and took cover in a culvert at the end of our driveway. My husband became obsessed, waiting for her next appearance. She refused to come out and left him waiting for another three days.
He finally came in the house with a victorious smirk on his face. I love this man. He recounted the hunt and bragged about his one-shot takedown. Weeks of misery had finally ended.
My husband didn’t want his nemesis rotting in our yard, so he decommissioned his rifle and armed himself with fortitude and clothes he could throw away. Safety goggles. Toilet paper stuffed up his nose. A clothes pin on his nose. A welders’ mask, gloves, and a shovel completed the uniform.
When he tried to pick up the striped general with the shovel, a stream of greenish colored juice shot six feet into the air. He dropped the skunk and all pretense of manliness and started puking. He eventually gained enough strength to move the beast next to the road but had to retreat.
My husband’s recovery consisted of a long hot shower. The same skunk bath solution used on the dogs. And a beer. A few beers.
I gazed out the window while my husband, with his new blond highlights, evaluated his next approach. An SUV pulled up in front of our house and parked on the side of the road. A middle-aged man dressed for a round of golf jumped out and opened the back end of his vehicle. This guy bent down, picked up the striped general with his bare hands, put the dead skunk in the back end of his SUV, shut the door, and drove off.
I stood there in shock. Eventually, I hollered at my husband, “Honey, listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you because you are not going to believe what just happened!”
I flipped the back-porch light on, opened the door, and watched the dogs scramble to complete their 6:00 AM rituals. They didn’t know what hit them. A skunk marched out to confront the enemy who had dared to storm her territory. She hiked her tail and with military precision, fired off one shot and nailed two dogs.
They cried and whined like cowards while shoving each other trying to get back through the door. I stood my ground. The house was on lockdown, but the smell was already infiltrating. Putrid fumes made my eyes water. My last meal was trying to force feed its way up my esophagus. The smell was noxious and permeating everything.
I quickly discovered nothing you buy will actually get rid of the aroma from your dogs. Pet store shampoos and treatments cleaned my wallet but not the suffering beasts. I was told to use tomato juice, but it just turned them orange. After scouring the internet, I landed on a home remedy of dish soap, baking soda, and peroxide. Our dogs were now orange with blond highlights.
Our canines are slow. Mentally. And physically. Every time they went outside they stood side-by-side in a show of solidarity. Apparently, the strategy to divide and conquer escaped the capacity of their collective brain power. They lost three more skirmishes.
Leaving the house required a plan of action with precise timing. We needed a plan. We were living life like a Jason Bourne movie. Could we make it to the car? Could we get to the barn? We were darting from our house and pressing our bodies against trees, outbuildings and vehicles. Poking our faces around the sides and scouting the area to see if we had a clear shot to the next point of safety. The striped general had taken complete control of our lives. We looked like idiots.
My husband couldn’t take it anymore and decided to take up arms. The standoff required a safe distance and hours of patience. In the bed of the truck. According to my husband, every time someone drove by, it disrupted the timing of the general’s appearance. That and our daughters sporadically hollering out the door, “Hey, Dad, did you get her yet?”
After four days, the target made her presence known. She spied him shouldering the rifle and took cover in a culvert at the end of our driveway. My husband became obsessed, waiting for her next appearance. She refused to come out and left him waiting for another three days.
He finally came in the house with a victorious smirk on his face. I love this man. He recounted the hunt and bragged about his one-shot takedown. Weeks of misery had finally ended.
My husband didn’t want his nemesis rotting in our yard, so he decommissioned his rifle and armed himself with fortitude and clothes he could throw away. Safety goggles. Toilet paper stuffed up his nose. A clothes pin on his nose. A welders’ mask, gloves, and a shovel completed the uniform.
When he tried to pick up the striped general with the shovel, a stream of greenish colored juice shot six feet into the air. He dropped the skunk and all pretense of manliness and started puking. He eventually gained enough strength to move the beast next to the road but had to retreat.
My husband’s recovery consisted of a long hot shower. The same skunk bath solution used on the dogs. And a beer. A few beers.
I gazed out the window while my husband, with his new blond highlights, evaluated his next approach. An SUV pulled up in front of our house and parked on the side of the road. A middle-aged man dressed for a round of golf jumped out and opened the back end of his vehicle. This guy bent down, picked up the striped general with his bare hands, put the dead skunk in the back end of his SUV, shut the door, and drove off.
I stood there in shock. Eventually, I hollered at my husband, “Honey, listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you because you are not going to believe what just happened!”