This weekend my big, dumb dog Truman decided to play with a skunk. This is the fourth time in just as many months. Sometimes I think our cat is egging him on, saying, “Oh, look. Why don’t you go play with that black and white one?”
This time it happened late Saturday night. I was working at the computer when I hear a frantic banging sound at our sliding glass door, and look up to see poor Truman plastered to the glass.
I open the door and my big boy slinks inside, immediately trying to hide in our living room. He’s 170lbs of stink and shame; hiding isn’t an option. With the hour being late, and my humor being poor, I quickly rinse of his puffy eyes, then banish him to the laundry room. This produces all sorts of whining and puling as he usually sleeps all snuggled under the covers of my daughter’s bed.
The next day, things get even worse. It’s bath time. He doesn’t usually mind his bath, but when he’s covered in skunk he knows it’s going to be rough. His eyes are going to be thoroughly rinsed, his ears are going to be scrubbed. There’s going to be lots of shampoo, baking soda, and Dawn. Buckets will be dumped, and tomato juice will be flowing. The whole time words like, “Why do you play with skunks?” and “Won’t you ever learn?” will be whispered and not so whispered in his ears.
Eventually he’s all clean and snuggled up in my arms. I’ll remind him that skunks are never his friends, but I have a feeling we’ll be back here again.
Like I said, some analogies just write themselves.