Skunk-ageddon

Most of us have, at one time or another, passed through a putrescent puff of skunk funk during a stroll in our neighborhood or perhaps a hike in the woods.

“Phew!” we may say to ourselves, noses twitching every which way. We hold our breath and pick up the pace until we’ve safely escaped the almost visible boundaries of the scent.

But when detonated from within closed quarters, skunk spray has the astounding ability to permeate through solid doors, tunnel through air vents and peel paint from walls. It’s powerful enough to make eyes tear up, as my fellow Wildlife Department volunteer Jennalee discovered on Wednesday.

Jennalee’s eyes began weeping not long after she and I commenced our vigil outside the double doors of the exam room.  I’d like to report we were engaged in some sort of important scientific observation of the activity underway within, but we were simply overcome by a perverse curiosity, something akin to rubbernecking on the highway. Well, at least I was.

Like fearless first responders sacrificing themselves to save others, Ashley and Gary had charged into that odiferous exam room to confront the sick skunk inside. Jennalee and I watched, mouths closed, as Gary held down the great beast and Ashley administered fluids. A healthy skunk would have fought and sprayed at our heroes, but this one simply leaked and oozed into the towel placed beneath him. Even from the opposite side of the doors, Jennalee and I could taste skunk funk on our tongues.

“Get the coffee in the locker!” Gary said.

Oh crap. He was speaking to us.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” I asked Jennalee. She did.

But the coffee grounds kept in the supply closet for the express purpose of absorbing skunk stench were exhausted. So I booked it to the employee break room and ransacked the cabinets there. Armed with two single-serving packets of Colombian blend (fully caffeinated – decaf just wasn’t going to cut it), I returned to the double doors, sucked in a deep breath and pushed through.

Confined within that 8 by 10-foot room, the fumes were positively toxic and thick enough to induce coughing. It was the kind of stench you imagine you can actually see, squiggly green vapors suspended in the air. I’ve smelled burning corpses before. This was worse.

“Holy crap, that stinks!” I said, a tad louder than the situation called for. Our heroes shushed me, presumably to spare the patient any embarrassment.

In a motion not unlike ripping a pin from a grenade, I tore open the coffee packets and dumped the contents onto a large metal pan. Then I retreated.

“There’s a skunk in recovery,” I texted Matt. “Worst smell ever.”

“Poor skunk,” he texted back. “What’s wrong with it?”

“They don’t know. He’s just not very mobile. I think they’re giving him fluids. Ashley and Gary are going to reek afterward.”

Eager for a breath of fresh air, I decided this was an ideal time to visit the shelter gift shop and buy a kennel key from the cashier there. Business had been slow, and she seemed eager to chat.

“You’re in Wildlife, so you’ll appreciate this,” she said. “My husband fancies himself a wildlife photographer. He especially likes birds. So he drove 150 miles alone the other day to get these shots at a park near Gilroy.”

She handed me her smartphone.

“Just scroll down,” she said. “They’re long-eared owls.”

“Great shots. Where did you say he took these?”

The woman’s nose twitched.

“Have you been hanging out with a skunk?” she said, gasping for air and grasping for her phone.

I bent my head and directed my own nose to the collar of my favorite jacket.

“Oh man!” I moaned. I expedited my purchase and vacated the gift shop before the cashier asphyxiated.

Back in Wildlife, Ashley and Gary had settled the skunk into an outdoor kennel. His stench, however, still lingered throughout the department hallways. It would remain so for days.

“I got my key, but the cashier says I stink too,” I told Ashley. “So, how do I get rid of the smell? Just shower and shampoo and wash my clothes a few times?”

Ashley opened her eyes wide, smiled and shook her head back and forth.

“What? What does that mean? Am I going to have to burn my clothes?!”

“No, you’ll be fine,” she said, laughing. “Your car’s going to stink, though. My car always stinks after.”

“But I’m spending all next week in my car!”

“Well, maybe use your husband’s car.”

“We have just one car.”

“Oh. Good luck.”

I called my mom on my way home. She thought the situation was hilarious. And the fact she thought the situation was hilarious reminded me of the psychological torture she and my father subjected me to as a child.

While my parents, supposedly impartial role models, adorably referred to my younger sister as “Mouse” or “Sweet Pea” or “Twinkle Toes,” they called me “The Beast,” “The Godmother” and, worst of all, “Stinky.” And I was not, to the best of my knowledge, a dirty or disgusting kid! Nevertheless, my parents solidified my association with filth and putrescence throughout my childhood. When I was 8, they returned from a trip to present Hailey with a plush opossum (who doesn’t love a baby opossum?!) and me with a skunk, which I still own and which scares the bejesus out of my cats. During my twelfth year, my parents somehow managed to intercept my request for the nickname that would appear on the back of my youth soccer jersey and informed the coach it should read “Pig Pen.” And so it did.  You can imagine what a boon this was to my ranking on the middle school popularity scale.

Years of therapy have softened the bitter sting of “Stinky.”  I think saddling Matt with the pet name has also contributed to my improved self-image (In exchange, I’ve agreed to endure the slightly less-offensive “Smelly). But I’m still sensitive to association with the fetid. So in the aftermath of “Skunk-ageddon,” I’ve showered twice and twice laundered my clothes. I think I’m officially stench-free, but as is commonly the case with B.O., it’s difficult to know for sure without shoving an armpit into a loved one’s face. Stinky should be home from work soon. I’ll make him smell me.