Monday night Mr. B and I rolled in from karate class. Mr. D was at a (very long and politically charged athletic association) meeting, Mr. G and Mr. T were home hanging out. When we pulled into the garage and exited the Momvan, we were assaulted by the most terrible odor imaginable. It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I determined it was burning rubber. This led me to pop the hood on the Momvan and check all of the tires. You see, I was convinced the Momvan was about the spontaneously combust. It was definitely something burning. And this is just the sort of thing that would happen right after we decided to replace Mr. D's car with a salvaged hybrid. Right?
But the Momvan checked out. I went inside and kept getting hits of the odor. Basement? Everything was fine. I checked the tree, all the electrical outlets. We seemed safe from a house fire. I went back outside and kept getting the scent. I checked the electric Christmas lights and extension cords. There seemed no rhyme or reason for the cause or source, but I definitely smelled that burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell.
Mr. D came home an hour later and smelled it, too. We examined garage door openers, his car (about to get traded in the next morning), I even walked up the driveway to ascertain whether the stench was blowing in from somewhere else. I tore apart the laundry room adjacent to the garage--checked the dryer vent, the wiring, even pulled the dryer out from the wall and ended up vacuuming up a half pound of lint and dust bunnies. I confess I went to bed that night certain we'd be woken up by the screech of smoke detectors. I knew I'd missed something smoking, burning, combusting. What was that horrible smell? Where was it coming from?
Sure enough, the next morning we could still smell it. Strongest in the garage. Mr. D warily drove to his office and returned, checking his car once again and coming into the house exclaiming, "Smell my hand! I can even smell it on my hand!"
Reader, at this point I was certain the Apocalypse was upon us. My overactive imagination deducted that all plastics made in oh, say 1995, was melting and turning toxic right before us, creating a swamp of deadly chemicals that we'd inhale and die from--or cause electrical fires and we'd be caught up in the resulting inferno. Silly, but the smell was coming from all kinds of odd spots--Mr. D's phone, the laundry room, the garage, the Momvan, Mr. D's hand.
Tuesday, about 10:00 Mr. D calls me from work. "Jax got sprayed by a skunk!"
I gasped, "How do you know?" and run to the window to look outside at the dog who is sitting in his little house.
"I was thinking about it and you know every where we smelled that smell? Jax was right there. In fact, I even told him to move his head when I looked under my car, and that's when it smelled the strongest. I petted him--that's why my hand smelled. It all adds up, my dear Watson."
I walk outside and sniff. Now the top notes of burning blacktoppy-tar-rubber-plastic smell had worn off and sure enough, there was that sour, musky, raw skunk spray aroma. Jax trots up to me and I take another breath. Yep. Who knew? I guess the first blast of skunk smells nothing like the lingering odor we're all more familiar with.
So. We have a smelly dog, below freezing temperatures, a new car in which we will not put the dog, a house in which we will not bring the dog and a Momvan which I refuse to contaminate with skunk smell. We can't bathe him outside, it's too cold. We won't bring him inside, it's too cold to ventilate properly. Everyone's avoiding Jax like the Black Plague and I read on the internet that skunk smell lasts up to 6 weeks.
After reading the suggested remedies (none included, "let the dumb dog suffer and the smell will naturally fade and all will return to normal without any dire consequence"--and trust me, I searched hard for that advice) I finally suggested to Mr. D that he borrow a work truck with a metal cab (less likely to absorb the odor) to transport the mutt to a dog groomer's.
In other news, Mr. G woke up the other morning and went outside in 23 degree weather to take his morning constitutional off the edge of the front porch in bare feet. WHY? you may well ask.
I went into the boys' bathroom of preference to figure it out. He won't go upstairs because that bathroom is disgusting, even right after I clean it he won't use it--and it's his fault because he won't aim. Downstairs someone hadn't flushed properly (you have to hold the handle down for a couple seconds) and a pile of brown poo lay marinating in the bottom of the toilet. Of course it's easier to step outside and pee in bare feet while freezing to death than to just flush the toilet. Right???
Straight from stinky dog to funky bathroom. Which explains why I'm dressed like this lately: