While visiting my parents last week, I began to recount to them in full detail the story of my crazy Thursday. In the middle of my account, my 10 year old daughter interrupted me and said, “Mom, you have to make this your next writing!”
The story starts with the always unwelcome 6:10 a.m. alarm that wakes me up. Shade, our 65-pound, black Aussiepoo (that’s an Australian Shepard and standard Poodle mix), sleeps next to our bed and is already with me.
I quietly open the door to my sleeping daughter’s bedroom to retrieve Pepper, a multi-colored Mini-Sheepadoodle (Old English Sheepdog and miniature Poodle mix).
The dogs and I begin our regular routine: We go downstairs, through the kitchen to the sliding glass door of our family room/dog room. I will remind anyone who may have forgotten that last Thursday morning, it was very windy and snowy and around 20 degrees (this quickly becomes an important detail in the events that follow).
The dogs proceed outside, as usual, to do their business. Pepper travels the short distance across the stone patio to the grassy area and returns inside in less than a minute. Shade, however, goes in the other direction, around the side of the house that is towards the front yard, and he starts barking.
This is not unusual; Shade is an annoying barking dog, high-maintenance, and anxious. But it is rather early—even for him. I call him but he does not stop barking, nor does he come to me. I walk to the side of the house to look out the window, praying that maybe, Shade is just barking at an early riser out in the horrible weather walking their dog.
Spoiler alert: that prayer went unanswered.
Before I can spot what Shade might be barking at, I smell it. Shade is now completely silent and coming back around to the sliding glass door.
If you were here watching, you might say, “No, Kelly! Don’t open the door!” But alas, my 6:15 a.m. brain is not that calculating, or shrewd, or experienced in matters of skunk. And I am not a morning person.
The weather is terrible, so I let Shade in and quickly grab a towel from the pile of towels I keep at the back door for muddy paws—trying to wipe off his face that clearly took the brunt of the skunk spray. He is struggling to blink his eyes and making a snorting sound.
I take Pepper out of the family room and put up the dog gate, leaving Shade alone while I take Pepper back upstairs to my daughter’s room. I quickly explain what she already could smell and tell her that she is going to have to keep an eye on the clock and get herself ready for school.
I come back to the family room to find Shade frantically rubbing his face all over the front sides of the couch cushions.
I move the gate to get him upstairs as quickly as possible, through my bedroom, and into our bathroom where I usually wash Shade in our stall shower.
Unfortunately, in the seven seconds it takes me to open the shower door, grab the dog shampoo from under the sink and get the dog into the shower, he runs into our walk-in closet area (his favorite place to hide).
It is a rare occasion that my husband travels out of the country, but on this particular day he has a suitcase out and has laid out all the clothes he is planning to pack for his trip to London later that day. It’s probably just as well that, while this is happening, he is out of the house at an exercise class.
I proceed to wash Shade twice with his special medicated shampoo, while lathering up his entire face with Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. Shade hates water and baths, showers, and anyone touching his face. But he is smart enough to tolerate all of this without resistance.
Did I mention that Shade has an auto-immune genetic skin disorder called sebaceous adenitis that causes his fur to fall out on a regular basis? The condition is unrelated to this story, but it does explain the medicated dog shampoo already in my bathroom. It’s not the special de-skunking shampoo (or whatever the latest recommended concoction my impending research will soon tell me), but it will have to do for now.
I bring Shade back downstairs to the family room, where he quietly waits on his dog bed for my next move. My daughter has stayed in her room with the door closed, watching out the window for the school van that picks her up at 7:15 a.m. She bravely opens her door when she spots the van and runs downstairs and out the front door in hopes of avoiding the pungent and incredibly permeating fumes.
Meanwhile, my husband is home and getting ready for work, having relocated to my daughter’s room and bathroom. Our 15-year-old who is in his bedroom on the third floor comes down ready for school and retrieves what he needs from the main skunk-damaged area of the house and is quickly out the door.
I am a coffee person. I decide that I would feel much better about dealing with Skunkfest 2025, after having a cup of coffee. So, I go into the basement for 30 minutes with Pepper, the “unskunked” dog, drink my coffee, and do my research. It is a brief moment of reprieve. Sigh.
In the next three hours, I go to Heinen’s and PetCo—purchasing larger than necessary amounts of old fashioned materials like baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, ammonia, white distilled vinegar, de-skunking dog shampoo, laundry additive, and carpet and upholstery spray.
I wash Shade twice with the specialty shampoo and barricade both dogs in the basement so I can clean the family room. I accidentally drop the large folding table I am using to barricade the dogs on my right big toe, breaking and having to rip off just over half of my big toe nail (this is maybe the only part of the story I am still not laughing about).
In the family room, I focus on attempting to clean the couch where Shade rubbed his newly-sprayed face on the unsuspecting cushions. Unfortunately, nothing is nearly effective enough.
As fate would have it, I am also preparing for a rare event in the afternoon: Briefly taking care of my friend’s 14-month-old daughter… at my now-skunked house while waiting for my daughter to get dropped off from school. I let my friend know that I am happy to still have her baby over, but I make it clear that there may be some odiferous collateral damage.
Meanwhile, despite the earlier attempts of my children to minimize their exposure, they cannot escape the effects of Skunkfest 2025.
My daughter’s classmates jokingly accuse her of farting. And if you read my last piece, you may recall that my son prides himself in having stellar hygiene and smelling good. However, he handles it like a champ when his first period teacher politely kicks him out of class because of his skunky smell.
Luckily, my husband’s flight isn’t until 5 p.m., so he has time to rewash all his clothes to prevent Skunkfest from going international.
When my daughter gets home from school, we return the 14-month-old to my friend at her house. Before heading home, my friend gives me some Dawn dish soap and a mini-steam cleaner. This proves to be a more than fair exchange for babysitting. The Dawn and steam cleaning combination helps the couch go from rancid to bearable.
I have to say, it is impressive how we adapt—we barely notice the smell after a while. But when we leave the house for any amount of time and come back, the re-entry reminds us that the Skunkfest 2025 odor will be with us for a long time to come.
They say every dog has its day, and I believe almost every dog owner has their skunk story. My last skunk vs. dog story was in the Summer of 1986, so I guess in the bigger picture, perhaps I should consider myself lucky.
I don’t have much advice, but if there is one thing I have in the forefront of my conscience now, it is that my dog can survive in the cold and snowy weather for a few minutes. He will eventually forgive me for keeping the sliding glass door shut next time.
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