My dog and I stepped outside Sunday for her last potty break of the night. I had barely closed the door when she took off, chasing something and moving fast. Before I had time to react, she was on the far side of the yard, stopped in her tracks, shaking her head violently. She had met her first skunk, and the skunk won.
Until this point, I had only encountered dead skunks and their unlovely smell along the highway. What filled the air Sunday night was something acrid and burning and immediately horrible, beyond what I would have imagined possible from a skunk.
I had no idea what to do, other than to keep her outside. She had taken a direct hit to the face and right away pulled her green bandana off with her front paw. My husband scoured the internet and made a hasty trip to the nearest grocery store for peroxide. He had to go right back for more.
I’m not sure how many baths and partial baths she has had since Sunday night. Yesterday, when we got home from running (which felt more like running with a skunk on a leash instead of a dog), I looped her leash to an outdoor hook and got ready to give her another partial bath. She looked up at me and then lay down and rolled over in surrender. “Please not again.” I’m pretty sure that’s what she would have said if she could talk.