Sunday, May 11, 2008


J. called me on his cell phone from the nearby woods, where he had taken the three dogs to run.

"Amber got skunked!"

'OK, how is she?" I asked.

"She wiped her face on my pants," he said.

"Well, her eyes were burning," I suggested. "How is she now?"

"She's rolling in the dirt," he replied. "What should we do?"

"Not much, necessarily," I replied. "We'll leave her outside for awhile. Maybe bathe her in peroxide. Let's see how she is when you get home,"

Of course, he was unconvinced, not realizing that dogs have been skunked for thousands (if not millions) of years.

When they got home, Amber was mostly herself (aside from smelling a little funky). Skunk smell has never bothered me much -- it's a sign that I'm (finally) in the country. I took J's jeans and proceeded to the basement, to put them in the wash.

And all the time I was thinking, "You weenie! What's a little skunk smell among friends?"

He's the country boy, I'm the suburban hothouse flower -- go figure!

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