Let’s start with a morning phone conversation between Brian (at home) and me (in Detroit):
Brian: I think Wilson might have gotten sprayed by a skunk last night. At 2 a.m. I realized he wasn’t in the bedroom and when I called him in from the dog-yard he was soaking wet and reeking. But I’m not sure if it was that wet-dog smell or a skunk.
Me: Oh, honey, you’d know if it was a skunk.
Yeah, well, I was wrong. Wilson had gotten skunked. And so, in effect, did our entire house, since Brian allowed him to come inside and hang out in all his usual spots: our bed, the couch, the chair in my office. Thank God I only had to put up with skunk-dog for one night before we cleared out for a long weekend. By the time we returned the house no longer smelled, though I can’t say the same for Wilson. Even though my wonderful niece bathed him three times for us while we were gone, his face took the brunt of the spray and skunk scent has taken up long-term residence in all those folds of skin I find so adorable. Poor SkunkFace, as we now call him, can’t understand why no one wants his kisses anymore.
Moving on to a couple of days later…
I’m in my office when I hear Lucy come in the dog-door. Out of the corner of my eye I see she’s carrying this old plush toy that looks like a groundhog. Only I threw that toy away months ago. And this thing is much bigger than that toy was. Hmmm. “What’cha got, girl?” I walk around the desk to get a peak, thinking it must be a rag or something, and Lucy drops at my feet a real groundhog. It’s dead — thank God — but still, IT’S A GROUNDHOG. The thing was nearly as big as she is — I have no idea how she wrestled the thing through the dog-door, let alone managed to kill it.
Lucy, Wilson and I all stood there in our respective states: pride, curiosity and astonishment. I start to scream at her but then remember the effects of my freak-out earlier this summer with the bird. So instead I run down the hall, out the front door and down the driveway to get my neighbor. Back at the house, I shove Wilson into his crate so Lucy will stop guarding her fresh kill, and my neighbor bags the groundhog and hauls it outside to dispose of. I call the vet to double-check that Lucy is up-to-date on her rabies vaccine.
Sometimes — just sometimes — I don’t enjoy living in the boonies.
