The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson: A Stinking Dog

You know how it is at the end of a workday and supper's over and the dishes are done? You're ready to settle down, put on your pajamas, and have a little quiet time before going to bed. Yeah, that's the way I like it, too.

On one such night, after “quiet time” was over and it was time to go to bed, I opened the front door and called for our rescue-beagle, Russell, to come inside from his “after-supper-run-around-the-woods-and-neighborhood” excursion, which oftentimes lasted for an hour or two. This time, though, instead of having to call and coax him in, he ran pell mell through the open door and jumped on the couch like he was being chased by a rabid badger.

A split second later, the smell of a skunk was shoved up my nose, and I began to gag.

But Russell wasn’t running from the skunk outside; he was running from himself BECAUSE HE’D GOTTEN SPRAYED BY A SKUNK!!!!!!!

He was frantically rubbing his face on the couch and pawing at his nose.

“Russell!” I yelled.

But neither my voice nor anything else was going to draw his attention away from the acrid stench he was trying to escape.

Pandemonium broke loose in the house as everyone screamed and ran out the room.

I had no choice but to pick Russell up and summarily pitch him out the door.

From around the corner of the doorway to our bedroom, my wife asked, “What are you going to do now?”

Indeed, that was the question of the hour.

“Go to the kitchen and get me all the tomato juice we have.”

When we passed each other as I headed to the bedroom, she actually held her nose and stepped away when she got close to me. Apparently “for better or for worse” didn’t include smelling like a skunk.

Taking off my pajamas (which had to be thrown away) and putting on the oldest clothes I could find, I donned rubber boots and rubber gloves and went outside armed with a quart of tomato juice in each hand.

Walking outside was like walking into a wall of the smell. I could hardly breathe.

Russell was rubbing himself across the grass, making unnatural, guttural sounds. But as soon as he saw me, he rushed to me and reared up on me in hopes I could deliver him from the inescapable odor.

Even though he’d never been given a tomato bath, he stood stock still as I rubbed and scrubbed him from the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose.

I really hadn’t thought through what I was going to do with a tomato-soaked dog.

My first idea was to use the garden hose and rinse him off, but it was wintertime with a temperature in the 30’s. So I discarded that idea.

I closed my eyes when the only other option became apparent and wondered if this might be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back of my marriage.

Putting my arms underneath Russell, I lifted him and carried him inside.

I won’t repeat everything Brenda said as I stepped inside, but let’s just say she: 1. Wasn’t happy; and 2. Questioned my sanity.

With my rubber boots, rubber gloves, and stinking tomato-juice-soaked clothes, I got into our walk-in shower with Russell and closed the doors.

“Bring me the Dawn dish detergent,” I called out.

Using the handheld wand in the shower, I soaked, soaped, and rinsed Russell multiple times.

At first, the bottom of the shower looked like a technicolor version of the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s movie “Psycho.” Eventually, though, it turned pink and, after twenty minutes or so, finally turned clear.

At work the next day, some of my coworkers wrinkled their nose when I got close.

“It’s my new cologne,” I told them. “What do you think?”

(p.s. the couch had to be thrown away)

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume III: A Harrowing Halloween Tale