Though as skunkings go, it wasn’t super-super bad. The smell didn’t hit me immediately when I let him in. It was more like, five seconds after he walked in the door, and I was all, “Sammy, did you get skunked?” and he looked at me sheepishly (it’s true, cats can look sheepish) and walked into the kitchen, like he knew I would want to try and rub him down or something.
I mean, he clearly didn’t receive a direct hit and it seemed more like he was Mr. Wrong Place Wrong Time, because the smell on him was evident but not, you know, get out of the house for the next two days. We wiped him down with wet towels to try and get some of the smell off and made him stay outside most of the next day, and it was bright and clear and windy and since exposure to oxygen is the best way to get rid of skunky smells by suppertime yesterday he was back to smelling like handsome kitty again.
But in that day, I came up with probably five hundred new nicknames for Sammy. They include:
-Baxter (as in, Jeff “Skunk” Baxter, rock-guitarist-turned-missile-defense-consultant)
-Smellheim von Skunkelberg
-Admiral Skunkster Nimitz
-Little Lord Skunkleroy
(and my favorite)
-Emperor Skunkelbutt Smellbottom, Lord of Stinkopotamia
…and so on, and so on. And I wondered just what, exactly, is wrong with me, as I have way too much fun picking on my poor stinky cat.
I tried to remind him that just because he looks like a skunk doesn’t mean he needs to smell like one.
No, really, he’s fine! Look, he’s allowed back up on the bedding.