Dead Skunk Not in The Middle of The Road

I’m a night-owl. So 11:30 p.m. on a Tuesday is not an unusual time for me to let Nancy Drew, my Aussie Doodle, out to run laps in our enormous backyard. Most of the time I just open the door and let ‘er rip so I can finish the dishes or pin down a pesky paragraph I’ve been wrestling with. But on that particular Tuesday, I followed her out and looked on as she did her best impression of a Cup Series car at Talladega.

After a few minutes she came to a screeching halt, mid lap and began to paw at the ground with wild abandon. Then she really got into it. Sliding into home base with her muzzle, she threw her whole-self down, flipping onto her back and kicking her legs in the air. She rocked, she rolled and rolled some more; she just couldn’t get enough.

It was a dark, cloudy night and other than the shadowy light coming from the singular streetlamp in the alley, the yard was dark as pitch. But there was just enough light to see that she was rolling in something dead. And as this ah-ha moment hit me, so too did the suffocatingly acrid smell of burned metal mixed with rotting flowers, infused with Sulphur and topped off with motor oil. The undelightful soucent filled the air to the point where I was choking and I called  Nancy Drew who came running to me with the nauseating smell in tow. 

Her coat was slimy to the touch, and her eyes were nearly swollen shut which made me wonder if, rather than a dead animal, my dog had rolled in some kind of chemical slime. Had my exterminator come unannounced and over-sprayed? Or had someone planted a stink bomb in my yard which exploded when touched? Both scenarios seemed unlikely but the noxious stench that still hung in the air seemed to be more chemical than animal. 

Depositing Nancy Drew in the tub, I rinsed her eyes with cold water from the handheld sprayer until the swelling dissipated. Then I shampooed her. Twice. But within moments of releasing her, during which time she rocked and rolled on every area rug in the house, I returned her to the tub for a third time, covered her with a mixture of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dish soap, (thank you Google!) and let her marinate for a few. But when all was said and done, the third bath wasn’t the charm; the feted smell she’d brought into the house was gonna be more than an overnight guest.

By 12:45, I’d sprayed the rugs in the house with an enzyme cleaner and was ready to call it a night. It was unclear whether the spray had worked or if I’d become nose blind, but the stench was at least tolerable. I could barely keep my eyes open but sleep was the last thing on Nancy Drew’s mind. All she cared about was returning to the dead thing in the backyard. By then, my exterminator had confirmed that he hadn’t been there in weeks. Dead animal it is! I announced like the host of the world’s most disgusting game show. 

As my dog ran frantically from one end of the house to the other, in the hopes that I’d be stupid enough to open either door, I thought maybe she needs to poop. Leashing her up we stepped onto the front porch and into a cloud of the noxious odor that now filled the front yard as well. Hurrying Nancy Drew through the gate we turned left and headed for higher ground.

The streets were deserted and quiet, the houses still and dark, as my neighbors slumbered, tucked up in their beds. The only sound was the jingling of Nancy Drew’s tags and the far off white noise of interstate traffic. After a few minutes we’d reached one of her favorite spots; a wide strip of lawn that fronts a burger joint. The place had long since closed for the night and the open-air patio featuring perpetually lit string lights appeared as deserted as the rest of the neighborhood. That is, until the music started playing; it was techno pop, like the music they play in the deserted streets of Chernobyl, and because the streets I was walking down were just as deserted I began to wonder if  I’d somehow wandered into an episode of the Twilight Zone. 

I squinted at the building in hopes of spotting someone and seeing no proof of life I felt my heart pick up speed. That’s creepy! I said out loud. And as if in answer, the volume dropped precipitously. OK. That’s even creepier! I said to the muggy night air. Let’s go home!  I told Nancy Drew as I tugged on her leash and hurriedly retraced our steps. As we made our getaway, I glanced over my shoulder more than once, just to be sure that some crazy person in a Ghostface mask, wielding a machete, wasn’t hot on our heels.

After a brief and not-so-restful sleep the foul smell of my darling dog shook me awake with a vengeance offering a reminder that it was time to see what evil lurked in my backyard. Suiting up in my funkiest gardening garb and heavy duty gloves, I stepped into the morning light and followed my nose. Just as I had suspected, a large dead skunk lay in front of the bird bath, curled up like it was sleeping. It was all I could do to slide a pitchfork underneath the rather heavy carcass of the stinkiest show on earth and deposit it into its final resting place, a lavender-scented garbage bag. Then I doused the ground with a bucketful of the hydrogen peroxide mixture which, thankfully, eradicated the dead skunk smell.

Now there was probably some protocol I overlooked when disposing of the disgusting dead beast but I had zero desire to have the thing in my yard for even another minute. Lucky for me I had my pick of dumpsters, seeing as how there’s no shortage of new construction happening around here and making my way to the site where the most trees had been taken down, something that upsets me even more than the skunk debacle, I flung the foul-smelling package over the side of my hand-picked dumpster and quickly scurried away.

It’s taken over two weeks and half a dozen baths to get Nancy Drew back to her sweet smelling self. And now, as I watch her tear around the yard with joyful abandon I can’t help but be reminded of that not so long ago night when we were the unwitting contestants in world’s most disgusting game show.