Last summer, Sedona and Kersey got nailed by a skunk. The smell permeated the house, coming in the windows, swirling around the downstairs and settling on our bed. We woke to the acrid smell of skunk and found the dogs desperately rolling in the dirt in an effort to get the oil off. We didn't do the tomato juice thing -- they were outside dogs -- just waited for the smell to dissipate. My car, despite being in the closed garage, smelled like skunk all the way into the office and back, for weeks. Skunk spray up close and personal is nothing like the odor you get driving past a road kill specimen. It burns your eyes and your throat and it is inescapable. You'd think Kersey would have learned.
This evening, Kersey and I went for our usual three mile walk. Our neighbor walked with us and we chatted about skunks, of all things. As Kersey and I approached our driveway, she suddenly started lunging forward, pulling on the leash. I saw something black, the size of a cat, move off the dirt road into the blackberry bushes. I thought "maybe cat; maybe skunk" and told Kersey to get a grip.
I left Kersey outside, on the front porch, while I made dinner. I knew she'd want a good long drink of water and to stretch out where the cool evening breeze could reach her. The water to cook our ravioli hadn't reached a boil yet when the smell of skunk came in the front windows. I stepped outside and saw Kersey down past the oak trees, in the stream bed, chasing something. She came to me, reluctantly, and I gave her fur a good sniff. She didn't smell any stronger than the surrounding air -- which smelled very strong. She had a hard time settling down in her crate and was clearly experiencing some discomfort in her mouth.
I washed her face with clear water and she stopped gagging; poor thing. I took her out to the barn and washed her with a mixture of dish soap, baking soda and hydrogen peroxide. It worked pretty well; the smell is greatly reduced. She's sacked out now in her bed.
Country living at its best.