There is a little red dog who lives with me. He has few redeeming qualities.

TUESDAY, MIDNIGHT

Derek, aka The Snuggler, aka Snuggie, aka Little Red, aka Rusty, aka Snugglelicious, aka Snuggie Snugs, aka The Snugmeister, aka Wally, aka The Beast, aka Turd Ferguson, lives up to his reputation of World’s Worst Dog, and, while out taking his midnight constitutional, busts through his outdoor pen in hot pursuit of something he’s seen.  He is now loose in River Vale, emboldened by his rage, hunting and killing and leaving man-sized turds in his wake.  I, on the other hand, am trapped on my deck, caged like a rat and frozen at the thought of the carnage that will ensue. I run into the house, grabbing treats and flashlight, and head back out into the darkness, unaware that this was part of my job description as dogsitter.  Like a mother summoning the adrenaline to lift a car off her child, I hoist the gate of Cerberus’s pen from the frozen ground and shine the flashlight into the thick night. 

Expletives fill the air, as does the pungent, fetid stink of the Mephitis mephitis – your common backyard skunk. 

From 1634:

“No sewer ever smelled so bad. I would not have believed it if I had not smelled it myself. Your heart almost fails you when you approach the animal; two have been killed in our court, and several days afterward there was such a dreadful odor throughout our house that we could not endure it. I believe the sin smelled by Saint Catherine de Sienne must have had the same vile odor.”

This smelled worse. 

Derek seemingly glides back into the house, cradled in a viscous cloud of stink, grinding himself into his bed as if to cleanse himself from his unspeakable crimes. He seems proud of himself.  

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Guided by the Google, I boil all the white vinegar I have in the attempt to remove the stench and be able to breathe again.  The air in my house now seems to have a texture; it is almost gelatinous. I pray for death at this point, or at least noseblindness. I take Satan’s best friend out for a walk – we both could use some fresh air. When we return, the hot, syrupy blanket of skunky vinegar assaults me at the front door. I fear this entity is here to stay.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

I fear I can never show my face in Wegmans again.  I have a short list, with vinegar at the top.  Need vinegar. Gallons of it. While waiting on the gentleman to stock the shelf, a woman next to me in the aisle drops her sunglasses.  She bends down and says, “Excuse me I’m a clutz.”  I reply, “No! Maybe you’re just excited about this sale on canned soup.”   She laughs and leans over.  “Let me ask you something,” she whispers.  “Do you think this store smells like skunk?  Because I’ve been smelling it throughout the whole store.”   The whole store.  I start sweating and babbling and high-tail it out of there with half my order, leaving numerous watery eyes in my wake.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I don’t know what makes me cry harder — the mess I’m watching on the news or the fact that Derek the Red Menace’s vet informs me that they cannot help me. They tell me to wash him in Dawn. This beast nearly takes my fingers off when I try to help him retrieve his snack ball, and I’m supposed to try to bathe him? My neighbor suggests that I simply take him in the shower and leash him to the towel bar if need be. All I can picture is 11 pounds of snarling, barking, growling fury running down the street with a chunk of my bathroom tile attached to him and me running after him in my birthday suit. I’m near a breakdown. The clogging of my nostrils brings me little relief. 

THURSDAY MORNING 

I’m at my part-time job. It’s slow this morning, so I suggest to my boss that we work on a project that we’ve both been putting off.

“Show me what to do with this paperwork, and I’ll do it,” I say.

“Nah, why don’t you take the rest of the day off,” he replies.

“No, why don’t we just get this done and over with? There’s not much going on here, and it’s only ten o’clock!”

“No, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Why? This needs to get done.”

“Well, if you must know, I don’t want to work with you today.”

I’m stunned. Maybe at the thought that my boss may actually not like me, or that he would actually say it to my face.

“What? Why?” I ask.

“Well…it’s because you stink. Did you get sprayed by a skunk? I mean, what is going on here? Go home.”

EPILOGUE

I’m told I should be mindful of skunk mating season, because that is exactly what a single woman of my age wants to be reminded of. Just what am I supposed to be on the lookout for? I mean, if I let the dog out and I hear Johnny Mathis playing, does that mean that the skunks are getting it on under my deck?

Personally, I think even the skunks were offended at how bad this dog smelled and haven’t been back.