Farm Week continues. This is the first and (I believe only) installment in our Beast Against Beast series. It was brought to mind by events of this past weekend. We were cleaning our house in preparation for my mom's visit, when we realized that something in the house smelled like zombie diarrhea. Initially, I (naturally) assumed it was zombies (they've been a major issue since the cemeteries were flooded), but it turns out it was our dog, Penny. She had obviously found some rank substance, rolled in it, eaten it, puked it, rolled in it again, eaten it again, puked it again, ad infinitum until she was a joyously foul mess. Several baths later she smells somewhat better, and we're having a lovely visit.
My dog when I was growing up was Prince, a beautiful, purebred Collie, just like Lassie, with long, elegant features, and a flowing white mane. He was also pure hick-dog through and through. His hobbies included chasing cars, eating baby groundhogs, and growing large colonies of ticks in his ears. One day, apparently, he decided to eat a skunk. It didn't work out for him, and he slinked home reeking like hell. We couldn't bring him in the house. We couldn't bring him near the house. We were at a loss.
Finally we decided to try the only skunk-stank remedy any of us had heard of - wash him in tomato juice. For those of you in non-skunky parts of the world, I'm not making this up. It is, in fact, something close to standard protocol. And it doesn't work. We trekked to the store, bought umpteen cans of tomato juice, returned home, filled up the washtub, held our breath, and immersed Prince, vigorously scrubbing the tomato juice in and (hopefully) the stank out.
When he finally emerged from the tub and shook himself off he was as hellacious-smelling as ever. And he was pink. He was pink and stinky for weeks. He was pink, stinky, and sad for weeks. It was very pathetic. Don't do it.