People often tell me I’m lucky.
“What an exciting adventure!” they say, referring to my life on the road. Since mid-February, my two dogs and I have been living out of cheap motels, racking up the miles on my car as we drive across the country to give Iditarod Sled Dog presentations in schools and libraries.
As much as I love to travel, coming home to Montana is always equally thrilling. No matter how many times I cross the state line, I always get goosebumps when I see the giant “Welcome to Montana” sign; my body immediately relaxes into the car seat. The spectacular landscape and boundless sky envelopes me - I’m home.
I finally crossed the state line last weekend. Of course, once you’ve “arrived” home to Montana, depending on where you live in the grand state it can still take hours, if not a day, to actually get to your doorstep. And to make matters more interesting, I don’t even have a doorstep - just a storage unit packed to the gills with all of my unessentials.
All of my most valuable possessions were in the car with me - my dogs, laptop computer, mandolin, tennis gear, dog sled, mushing supplies, clothes. To me, it’s a great feeling to have your life trimmed down, streamlined to the point where your little world packs neatly into a Toyota Rav.
My Montana reentry plan was simple. First, I would stop at my storage unit to drop off a few things. I planned stay at a motel for several days until I found a place to park myself for the summer. About 20 miles outside of town, I decided to stop the car and let the dogs stretch their legs before dark. A quick, brisk hike would do us all good.
Just a few minutes into the walk, Jigs, my 23 lb. German Hunting Terrier, disappeared. I stopped and strained to hear through the wind, hoping to detect the jingle, jangle of the cow bell (also, known as my “Jiggie finder”) attached to his collar. Finally, I recognized a muffled but familiar metal clinking sound directly below me. Ah, Jigs is in the culvert under the road... I thought.
I stepped down into the shallow ditch and dropped to me knees, shoving my head into the tiny tunnel to see if my calculations were correct.
Yes, Jigs was in the culvert.
It all happened so fast. One second I was innocently peering into the drain channel, calling, “Here, Jiggie, Jiggie...” And the next second, Jigs came barreling towards me, slamming me smack dab in the face. Upon impact, I instantly realized what had just come to pass - literally. We had been skunked.
Thankfully, Jigs took the brunt of the repulsive blow. At the time of the ”explosion,” he and the skunk were wedged into the conduit just inches apart; my nosey terrier absorbed most of the initial, direct hit. Once Jigs escaped the gas chamber, the tight culvert blasted the spray straight at me like a canon. I scrambled out of the line of fire, gagging and coughing and almost puking from the overwhelming putrid stench.
I crawled up out of the ditch and lay flat out in the weeds for a few minutes, attempting to wipe the skunk from my eyes and blow the fetor from my nose. Jigs was manic, wildly flailing and rolling about in the grass, struggling to remove the chemicals from his eyes and rancid malodor from his coat.
Borage, my sled dog, stood back and watched our bizarre behavior, curiously cocking his head back and forth, back and forth. He was third in line for the skunking and received a mild skunk shower.
Jigs refused to stop rolling in the grass. His eyes watered tiny rivers and were practically swollen shut. He wasn’t going anywhere. I was forced to carry him back to the car.
I had no idea what to do next. Just a half hour earlier, my life as a part-time vagabond seemed perfect. Now, as I stood looking at my car parked out in the middle of nowhere with all of my precious possessions packed inside, I realized this was a dismal situation.
And then I thought of my friends, Charlie and Tammy Sperry, who live just miles away. I called them on my cell phone and got the answering machine.
You know you have good friends when you’re leaving a message on their machine telling them that you and your dogs have just been skunked and you are homeless and have no where to go and they actually pick up the phone and invite you over.
I rolled down all of the car windows, loaded the dogs, and drove like a bat out of hell to their house. They helped me wash Jigs in their driveway. We didn’t have any tomato juice on hand so just used dish detergent, lemon juice, and baking soda. It didn’t help much.
The Sperry’s invited me to stay but I hated to stink up their home and ruin their weekend. Plus, I had already reserved and paid for a cheap motel room in town. My nauseating dogs and I hit the road again with the windows rolled down, the wind in our faces.
Thankfully, it was late when I arrived at the motel. The woman at check-in talked to me through bulletproof glass. I was lucky. So was she.
I left the dogs in the vehicle for the night. It didn’t matter now; the car, my possessions, and wardrobe were all skunky too. I stripped off most of my foul-smelling clothes and tossed them on top of my Toyota, trotting off to my room to hit the showers. I spent an hour soaping and rinsing, soaping and rinsing. Finally, I crashed on top of the bed, but couldn’t sleep. The persistent taste of skunk in my mouth kept me awake most of the night.
The next morning another friend offered some de-skunking suggestions.
“Beer...” he said. “I saw it on a television show...”
Yes, a cold brew sounded great to me.
“No, you bathe the dogs in beer,” he clarified. N-Butyl Mercaptan, a sulfur alcohol, is one the chemicals in skunk scent, he explained. “If you use an oxygen-based alcohol it will combine with the scent and allow it to be washed away. Pour the beer over the dog when he’s dry, rub it into his coat, and rinse...”
It was Memorial Day weekend. While everyone else at my motel drank beer and barbecued on their tiny charcoal grills, I sat in the parking lot, pouring a six-pack of Coors Light over my rank terrier. People gave me weird looks.
It was amazing. The beer helped quite a bit - in more ways than one.
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