Sure Shot

We're at my wife's family's place in the north Georgia mountains for the holiday weekend. It's a fantastic, peaceful place. Generally, me and The Duke (our affectionate nickname for my father-in-law) are the early risers of the bunch. Often, we'll meet on the deck with coffee to watch the end of the sunrise and survey the valley as it greets the day.

This morning, I went with him for a ride to the back 40 to check out a tree that had fallen on a fence. Of course, Dylan went with us. It would be a great way for Dylan to get some exercise, chase some squirrels through the forest, and, perhaps, to secretly feast on a buffet of fresh cow shit.

After a long ride on "The Toad," we headed back to the house. Dylan, of course, led the charge on the trails, running full-speed ahead of us. On one particular stretch, he disappeared from view. As we rounded the corner, however, what we saw twenty yards ahead caused us to screech to a halt. For the next few moments, everything happened in slow motion. "Nooooooooooo!," I yelled. (For added effect, imagine this in the deep, slow-mo voice for added effect.) "Dyyyylllllaaaaannnnnnnn, commmmmme heeeeerrrrrrreeeee. Nowwwwwww."

The poop shoot.

As a pet owner, it's never a great thing to see your dog running full-speed, heading nose first into the ass end of a pissed-off skunk. We watch the dog stop, turn around and look at us. Meanwhile, the skunk quickly made its way into the woods; its hindquarters pointed squarely at the dog, its tail constantly jerking up into the air, spraying, spraying, spraying. Dylan trotted back to us with a confused look on the face. Then, he sneezed once or twice and immediately began rolling around in the leaves, rubbing his face in the dirt.

"Super. Time for a tomato juice bath, buddy," I said.

Luckily, he didn't get hit that bad. I think he was barely out of range. We waited a moment or two before hopping back in The Toad and continuing home. Bad idea. Evidently, when a skunk completely empties its scent gland, the fumes tend to hang in the air, concentrating into a noxious foul cloud that permeates anything that has the misfortune to pass through it. Although we drove through pretty quickly, it was tough to breathe thanks to the fetid air that hovered over the trail. Had we stopped, I probably would've easily donated my previously consumed coffee back to mother earth, circle-of-life style.

As you can tell from these molecular diagrams, the scent obviously stinks.

Minutes later, after we'd made it back to house, The Duke discovered that perhaps driving through the foul cloud was a poor choice.

"It's in my shirt," he said, pulling the cloth to his nose. "It got us; we should've driven the long way around."

Needless to say, we all got baths - normal ones, not in tomato juice - out of the deal. Personally, I think Dylan's pride was hurt the most. He's still a little shaken. Enjoy the post-bath photos.

"Seriously, what the hell happened?"

"Man, what was the deal with that cat?"