Pepé le putois ?

I don't know why we have a plastic skunk in the house. Perhaps it commemorates an encounter between our former dog, Collette, and one of the stinky varmints not long after we moved into our San Francisco house. Picture it: the summer of 1995, just after we moved into the house. We had just gone to bed when we were suddenly aware of the peculiar odor. Yuck. At least the dog was in the house. Or so we thought. It wasn't long until we realized that the dog's door to the back yard had been left open and that she was sitting on the bed, literally dripping with skunk juice, seemingly proud that she was able to chase the offensive animal out of the back yard.

It was a night I'll never forget. I don't need the reminder.

We spent the rest of that night and most of the next day laundering bedclothes, spraying cans of air freshener and disinfectant onto the mattress, and showering the dog. It was fine opportunity to test the "bathing in tomato juice" method for dealing with the smell. At best, I can report mixed results. And that's being generous. We gave up the fight at home and ended up taking Collette to a groomer to let the pros have a go. After a while (we're talking days, many, many days) the odor began to subside.

So, maybe Ken got the plastic skunk. Maybe someone gave it to us as a "gag" gift. I don't remember. But I will always remember that night thirty years ago.