Dare I assume a double, super-dog-day spent fetching sticks and running in circles after each other, would leave “Dot” and “Cash” sapped of energy and prone to the “sleeping like a log” syndrome.
And dare I assume that just shy of dusk on any given summer evening, my neck of the woods be a candidate for the quiet slumber of night, fragrant with the smell of fresh cut field hay.
Instead, 30 seconds before the water boils for my cup of “caffeine-free sleep well” tea, and while the arc is high on the last doggie pee break of the night, “Pepe La Pew” is spotted minding his own business along the fence line.
While I understand the deep-seated canine instinct to chase anything that moves, could the “powers that be” please explain one more time, why my dogs don’t get it about skunks?
Like a scene from the movie “Groundhog Day,” did the same scenario unfold two consecutive nights last week, and four times in June and July, when after a spirited pursuit, both dogs slammed headlong into the scent glands of the white-striped varmint.
And once again there I was, standing outside on the porch step at 8:45 p.m., in the middle of a slow-motion movie shouting expletives at my stooges and watching in disbelief as Pepe stopped short to spray at the same time the tea kettle whistle blew.
And in a New York minute, as the sun went down and the wind shifted and brought the consequence to my nostrils, I wished I lived in the Big Rock Candy Mountains where the land is fair and bright and the wind “don’t blow” and the chickens lay soft-boiled eggs.
Dot and Cash should have used their supersonic hearing to catch the message from “The Duke,” who in the minutes prior to their odorous episode barked down the countryside to his canine colleagues the sage advice that, “Life is tough, but it’s tougher when you’re stupid.”
After legendary face-to-face consultations with Pepe’s backside, “The Duke” now concedes right-of- way and his food dish to “Mr. Stinky.”
But despite my canines being able to hear me open a can of dog food at 600 paces, they apparently didn’t catch that doggy memo.
Instead, ripe with skunk and soaked in my anti-toxin of “Febreze” plus hydrogen peroxide, dish soap, water, and baking soda, the stooges sit shunned at the backdoor puzzled as to why, once again, they are excommunicated from the farmhouse.
Not to mention me, having come into contact with a fresh recipe of “Pepe on dog” while trying to expunge it, carry fragments of the affair with me into the kitchen where the tea kettle has boiled dry and a husband shouts from his dent on the couch, “What’s that smell?”
Right then, I wanted to burst into flames like Nicholas Cage in “Ghost Rider” and scare the pants off everything that moved or spoke.
But instead I just took a deep breath and said, “Second hand skunk”—which immediately affected Pete to jump to his feet and run to draw me a bath.
(I guess the unexpected can have its rewards).