I left work around 4:00 on Tuesday. I had a club that ran until 3:15, and then I stayed to finish up a few things. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, and at about 4:30, I got a call from my son.
“Mom, the dogs got skunked. There’s a dead skunk in the dog pen and everything stinks.”
Great. That’s great. I had just purchased the rest of the ingredients for the new recipe I planned to try. Spicy Peanut Chicken. I had just enough time to cook and eat before Bell Choir rehearsal. The evening’s schedule was already full. I had not penciled in time for dealing with a skunk.
“HOLD UP,” I interjected. “I have questions. First of all, are the dogs back in the house?”
“No. I left them outside.”
“Okay. Good. Next question. Did THEY kill the skunk?”
“I don’t think so. I inspected it for bite marks and wounds and I didn’t see anything.”
WHAT? “You INSPECTED it?”
“Yeah. I put it in a plastic bag. Can I put it in the freezer?”
“HELL NO.”
“But it’s in a scented trash bag, so it barely even smells. I can use it for taxidermy experimentation. There’s already a dead goldfish in the freezer. How is this any different?”
“A GOLDFISH is not a SKUNK. And I don’t want the goldfish in my freezer, either. STOP collecting dead animals.” Ugh. Things You Never Thought You’d Say: Teenager Edition.
“Fine. I’ll put it in the woods out back. When will you be home?”
“I’m leaving now. I’ll see you soon.”
I texted the bell choir director. There was no way I could make it to practice. I had to de-skunk my two dogs and dispose of a dead animal carcass and try to get the stench out of my house and also feed my children. A woman can only handle so much.
I pulled into the driveway and smelled it right away. I wrinkled my nose and instinctively held my breath. But you can’t hold your breath forever. When I finally inhaled, I could taste the skunk smell. Gross.
As I walked toward the front door, Lee met me in the driveway.
“Do you want me to take them to the Dog Wash Station at Tractor Supply? I’ll just load them into my car.”
HOLY CRAP. My eyes went wide. Did I want him to take these smelly creatures away from me, to a place that wasn’t my bathtub, and remove the offensive stench?
“Yes. Yes, I do. And I will pay you 50 bucks to do that.”
“Seriously? I was gonna do it for free, but I’ll take 50 bucks.”
“I will happily pay for the privilege of NOT bathing those dogs.”
On the way home in the car, I had started to imagine what the evening would look like. It involved wrestling the small dog into the bathtub, while she repeatedly tried to jump out. The ‘little’ one is about 45 pounds of muscle and bathing her is a two person job because she HATES it.
The big dog weighs 130 sweet, dopey pounds. She doesn’t actively try to fight a bath, but she’s huge and not particularly HELPFUL about the whole thing.
And after a dog bath, we would spend about an hour and a half with the blow dryer, trying to dry them off because wet dog smells worse than dirty dog. And after a skunking, wet dog is a nauseating undercurrent to the lingering skunk smell that will make your life miserable for approximately 72 hours. Don’t ask me how I know.
And after the joy of all THAT, I would get the pleasure of cleaning the bathroom that would be covered in dog hair, with drips of soapy water on every surface because no matter how hard you try, you can’t keep them from shaking after a bath.
Once the dogs and the bathroom were clean again, I would need a shower.
And, amazingly, I was going to get to skip all of those steps. Because I have a capable, helpful teenager with a driver’s license.
Not only was he offering to take care of the baths; he would be able to do it without destroying my bathroom or stinking up my car.
HALLELUJAH.
I sent him on his way, and skipped ahead to the part where I try to get the stink out of our home. I opened the windows on the side of the house opposite the dog pen. I sprinkled baking soda on the furniture and the carpets. I wiped down the surfaces with a vinegar and water mix. I lit candles and ran the vacuum and sprayed Febreeze.
Eventually, I discovered that the worst of the smell was actually emanating from the basement laundry room. Apparently, the spot where the skunk expired was directly next to the dryer vent. I rewashed that entire load, using a liberal amount of baking soda and white vinegar. Even so, they needed a second washing.
As the machine ran, I checked the yard for skunk carcass. There was none to be found. I double checked the freezer, just to be sure. Just meats and butter and one small, dead, frozen goldfish. Excellent.
At that point, it was a little after 6 o’clock. I decided not to give up on my dinner plans. Spicy Peanut Chicken, coming right up.
As I started to chop and mix and measure, another child entered the kitchen. She put her hand up, as if to stave off an attack.
“Don’t yell at me. You can yell at me later, but please don’t yell at me now.”
“What are you talking about? Why do I need to yell at you?”
“The skunk. The dogs. The smell. Whatever. It’s my fault-but-I-didn’t-see-the-skunk-and-I-just-let-them-out-and-I-didn’t-know-what-to-do-and-I-know-you’re-mad-and-it’s-my-fault-but-it’s-not-really-my-fault-and-I-don’t-want-to…”
“Stop.”
“…get-in-trouble-and-it’s-really-not-fair-and-I’m-already-punished-and-I’m-never-gonna-get-my-phone-back-and-I-think-I’m-gonna-die-without-snapchat-and-I…”
“Hold on.”
“…miss-everything-because-my-friends-are-all-hanging-out-online-and-if-I-can’t-have-my-social-media-back-I-think-I-need-to-find-someplace-else-to-live-because-I’m-legitimately-depressed-and-it’s-affecting-my-mental-health-and-I-can’t-live-like-this…”
“PLEASE STOP TALKING.”
“What?”
“First of all, I’m not gonna yell at you. The skunk is not your fault. You let out the dogs. I’m glad you let them out. You didn’t know about the skunk. It could have happened to any one of us.”
“Oh.”
“And the whole phone thing is a different conversation entirely. Do you want to talk about that now? “
“Uh… no.”
“Okay.” Awkward pause. “Are you hungry?”
“YES. I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”
“Spicy peanut chicken,” I replied with an enthusiastic smile.
“Yuck.”
I take a deep, calming breath. “Actually, it’s made with habanero peppers. You love habanero peppers. I think you’ll like it. And if not, there’s rice and broccoli and carrots, too.”
“Fine.” She was unconvinced.
“Do you wanna help cook?”
“I gotta finish my homework.”
She headed back upstairs. I continued to saute and simmer, washing dishes as I went. Jack came home and got the whole story. I poured a glass of wine. The night was starting to look up, but I was also concerned that Lee wasn’t home with the dogs yet. It’d been more than two hours. I tried to call, but he didn’t answer. Understandable. I assumed he was elbow deep in dog shampoo.
The chicken was browned. The sauce was nearly done. It was starting to smell delicious. The rice was simmering, and I threw the vegetables in the saucepan. I rinsed the spatula, and accidentally splashed some water on my face. I wiped it away, casually. Thoughtlessly.
AAAARGH! FIRE! I literally screamed. Jack ran into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“No! AAAARRRGH! Oh, my GOD. My eye is on FIRE. It’s on FIRE!!!!”
I began to rinse my eye with water cupped in my hand, but scooping the water with my habanero-pepper-covered-fingertips felt like I was literally adding fuel to the fire in my eyeball.
“SALINE. PLEASE GET MY FREAKING SALINE FROM THE BATHROOM UPSTAIRS!”
I heard footsteps running into the kitchen.
“What is HAPPENING?” Cassie asked.
I couldn’t catch my breath. I was crying real tears and hanging my head under the faucet and somewhere deep down, I felt like this must be an overreaction but it didn’t matter care because HOLY CRAP it hurt.
“I got habanero pepper in my eye,” I wailed.
“Oh. Is that all? I thought you were dying.”
“I AM DYING,” I shouted.
“Uh… can I help?”
The phone rang. She looked at the screen. My head was still under the faucet.
“It’s Cal. Should I answer it?”
“Yes. Please. Answer it,” I whined.
Just then, Jack returned with the saline. I washed my hands and doused my eyeball and I washed my hands again. It was reminiscent of the skunk scent. No matter how much I washed, the spice lingered.
“Can you go and pick him up? He’s done with practice.” Cassie relayed the message as my eye continued to swell shut.
Jack seemed happy to have a mission. “I’ll get him.” He grabbed his keys. I couldn’t tell if he felt bad for me, or if he was just trying not to laugh.
The fire in my eyeball started to subside.
Jack returned with Cal. Lee returned with the dogs.
“Thank you. You’re a lifesaver,” I said to Lee. “I was starting to get worried. That took forever, huh?”
“I kept washing them and smelling them and washing them again. Every time, I could still smell the skunk. And then I realized…”
“What?”
“It was ME. The smell was ME.”
In spite of ourselves, the five of us laughed. We stood in the kitchen, giggling and loading our plates up with Spicy Peanut Chicken and rice and veggies.
We sat down in the dining room, where the faint, lingering skunk odor was finally dissipating. It was replaced by the scent of peanuts and peppers.
Anticipating a delicious, hard-earned meal, I took the first bite.
“Meh,” I said, underwhelmed.
“It’s not bad,” Cal chimed in.
Lee ate white rice and broccoli. Cassie just ate the broccoli.
Jack looked at my swollen eye, with a little bit of sympathy and a lot of barely disguised amusement. “Maybe this recipe isn’t a keeper. I’m not sure it was worth it.”
I had to laugh. Sometimes, you have to laugh so you don’t cry. But, over the years, I’ve learned that these insane stories are the ones that we’ll still be laughing about in 10 years. We’ll be sitting around the dining room table, celebrating some holiday or someone’s birthday, and someone will say, “Remember the time that the dogs got skunked and mom burned her eyeball making that terrible chicken?”
And we will retell the story, full of familiar quips and funny one-liners. We will laugh together and at each other. We will revisit this crazy night as part of our shared history; as part of our family’s story.
For better or for worse, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? We’re writing our family’s story. One terrible Tuesday night at a time.