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A DIFFERENT WRINKLE

Seasonal stench sparks memories

I smelled the stench of yesteryear the other day and that means no more letting my dogs roam free.

This is skunk season.

This is the time of year when these putrid pests, these noxious nuisances, these foul four-leggers walk the streets and sidewalks of our fair neighborhoods.

And I live in fear -- a deep and abiding fear.

Nineteen years ago almost to the day, Brittany, our late Cairn terrier, fell victim to what must have been the mother of all skunks.

It was the wee hours of a Saturday morning, just before sunrise, when the black beast with the white stripe struck -- a direct hit to the face.

My wife, downstairs on the sleeper sofa at the time, only a week removed from having our first son, and still recovering from her C-section, had seen that Brittany needed to relieve herself and had let her out the door.

It was an idyllic time, my wife recalls, a time when she had just begun to feel a level of comfort with the monumental responsibilities of motherhood. She had started to fall into the rhythm of nursing round the clock -- a rhythm only a mother can know and truly understand.

As for me, I was upstairs sound asleep dreaming -- foolish me -- that I might eventually be able to handle this strange, new role of fatherhood.

But then I heard the cry from below and awoke to reality.

The world changed from idyllic to chaotic with one squirt of a skunk's rear end. It didn't help that I responded to the attack with the intelligence of a low-functioning doorknob.

My first mistake was to bring Brittany into the house. Rule No. 1 in dealing with a skunked dog is to keep the animal as far away from your living quarters as possible.

I did just the opposite. I carried Brittany into the center of our home and placed her squarely in the bathtub.

Rule No. 2 is "Don't believe people who say tomato juice kills skunk odor." I violated this rule as well. I poured two cans of juice on Brittany, all of which did nothing but produce a skunked tomato with legs.

Thus began my first test as a new father. I had a family in crisis. And I had to rise to the occasion. I had to be the strong spouse, resourceful dad and responsible pet owner.

A sports writer at the time, I also had to be at the Bangor Auditorium by 1 p.m. to cover the first round of the Eastern A basketball tournament.

What followed was a Job-like tale of perseverance that sent me speeding across central Maine in a crazed crusade to find shelter for my wife and child, an industrial strength bath for the dog and a cleaning agent powerful enough to make our home livable again.

Somehow I succeeded, although I had to battle through a fog of biblical proportions -- call it the 11th Plague -- to retrieve my family from a relative's house later that evening.

So, yes, it's skunk season once more. And I am no longer a young father.

Come to my neighborhood and you'll see me. I'll be the one walking the dogs.

Colin Hickey is an English teacher in Regional School Unit 18. His e-mail address is differentwrinkle@yahoo.com