It all began with Brussels sprouts. As some adventures do.
This one though, took an unexpected turn, a pungent hard left.
It was dinner time. I’d fed the hair-covered creatures and gleefully realized I had the house to myself for the evening. I’d been fighting a hankering for Brussels sprouts the whole week long and finally found an opportunity to indulge with abandon. One whole pounds worth if I found myself determined.
And I was.
The prepared bowlful in my lap, I surfed with the remote to find something mindless and mind-numbing to watch for an hour before heading back to work at my desk. It didn’t matter what: Modern Family, Outdated Family, All in the Family—anything that allowed somebody else to do the thinking for a few minutes. At that point, the Weather Channel would have sufficed.
The cat leapt up onto the couch and put a paw on my arm. “Sorry, sweets, you’re an obligate carnivore and tonight is ‘Veg Nite.’ I popped her down onto the floor.
She leapt back up and re-positioned her paw, this time with newly sharpened claws getting a firm grip. “Ahem.” She glared at me.
“Hey, a little dining courtesy would be appreciated—and oh my godfathers, what is that smell?”
That cat rolled her eyes.
“Wait a second. It isn’t me. I haven’t even eaten any of these yet.” But within two seconds of saying that, there was no need to ask for further clarification. The smell was unmistakable, and it wasn’t Eau de Brussels sprouts.
I narrowed my eyes and looked at the cat. “Where is he?”
“I imagine he is stupidly attempting to run from the odor.” She began cleaning one of her mitts.
I put down my bowl and got up to search for the hound. With every step I took, no matter the direction, the pungent odor increased tenfold. I opened the kitchen door to the back porch and whistled into the blackened night. Nothing. I went to the front door and did the same. Nothing. I crossed the house to the laundry room, the room he’s been given access to with his own private entrance. I stepped outside, reeled back from the landslide of reeking air, and blew a piercing whistle.
I turned to see the dog in the corner of the porch, doing his utmost to disappear in the shadows.
“What have you done?” This was a stupid question which we both knew the answer to. My eyes were beginning to water.
“I was trying to make friends.”
“With whom?” I demanded.
“It looked like the cat.”
“But it wasn’t the cat, was it? Wasn’t even close to the cat.”
“Uh … yep.”
“Were you not given any warning?”
“It was dark.”
“Go sit in the shower. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Pepé Le Pew slunk off toward my bathroom and I ran to my computer, hoping I had whatever household ingredients necessary to create a deskunkifying poultice. And at that moment, fortune shined upon me.
It may be true that I have a teenage son who can bring me to my knees on a daily basis due to his typical teenage boy curiosities, but he has one particular saving grace which repeatedly saves his tuchus from being thrown into the giant abyss of THOU SHALT NOT COME OUT OF YOUR BEDROOM UNTIL YOU ARE TWENTY-FIVE AND RELIABLY PAYING TAXES:
He is kind.
And I don’t mean, “Hey mom, thanks for buying chocolate milk,” kind. I mean help the elderly cross the street, fold someone else’s laundry and asks how was your day every day kind of kind.
And just when I needed an act of kindness, he walked through the door.
There are not a lot of people who will be willing jump in the shower with an animal who can make your nose turn inside out from the stench, and show uncommon compassion for what that animal is going through by ignoring their own discomfort, but this fellah is to be counted among that lot.
I owe him my thanks, and try to remember to say it in between the variety of vehement and vociferous tongue lashings he regularly receives.
Once the lengthy shower had finished—one that included more baking soda than a kindergarten room’s art cupboards full of Play-Doh—I thanked my son and turned to the dog who sat looking quite miserable, dripping on the bathroom mat.
“And now we raid my cologne closet, to see what miracles my friends Chanel, Christian and Calvin can do with your … situation.”
I made a perfume soup and then threw in a dollop of two floral and one pine scented room sprays. It was an aroma nightmare, but slightly better than the assault we’d been experiencing pre-evening-ablutions.
The dog looked at me sourly, “This is awful.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said, wagging a finger.
“Okay, but can beggars have some Brussels sprouts if you’re not going to finish them?”
I suddenly felt really bad for the poor fellah. “You bet, buddy. Tonight of all nights, I don’t think anyone is going to notice.”
April Gotta Have a Gott winner
In January, Rob and I announced that his sketches will be available toward the end of the year in the form of a 2015 calendar! And our readers would get to be the judges and voters for which doodles they’d like to see selected for each month. We’ll reveal the winners one by one, and come November, If you’ve Gotta have a GOTT, you can place your order. Jump on over to see the cartoon winner for April!
Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all talked about down in the pub. Plus, you can see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone.
- 25 Facts about Skunks (http://www.voices.yahoo.com)
- How to De-Skunk your Dog (http://www.articles.chicagotribune.com)
- Roasted Fingerling Potatoes and Brussels Sprouts with Rosemary and Garlic (http://ohsheglows.com)