If this unfortunate sport were in the Olympics, I'd win.

If there were a competition on the worst way to be woken up, I'd win.

It was a Saturday morning in August last year. The sun hadn't come up yet, and I was snuggled under the covers in one of those blissful, deep sleeps that seem to elude me so often these days as I'm now fully in the grips of perimenopause. It's awesome by the way - highly recommend.

My husband Andrew was already up. Today was the Franklin County 4H Pig Club Roundup - the day the kids get to show off their hogs to a judge, and chase that coveted purple "Grand Champion" banner. Since Andrew's a club leader, and our nephew and niece were showing, he had to be at the fairgrounds super early. I was to meet him there when the show started.

I vaguely hear him come back in the house (normal), walk up the stairs (normal), and come over to my side of the bed to tell me he's leaving and kiss me goodbye (normal).

Here's where things went off the rails.

He bends down to kiss me. The next words out of his mouth are:

Your dog got sprayed by a skunk. He's outside in the kennel. I have to go. I love you and I'm sorry.

I didn't say a word. His instinctual survival skills kicked in and he vacated the bedroom, the faint odor of Ode' de Skunk wafting after him. I heard him pad down the stairs and out the door.

Told you I win.

Now, you may be asking yourself, Charlie - why didn't you rocket out of bed and start screaming at him like a bloody maniac?

Well dear reader here's the thing.

I wanted to. Desperately. But you see, he ran off so fast (Darwinism at its best), AND in full transparency, my mind was stuck in a loop of trying to tell me what I'd just heard, wasn't what I'd just heard. So I missed my chance.

And I'm not sure if it's my advancing age, or my therapy dollars paying off, but for whatever reason I didn't see the point.

I remember laying there, staring out the window into the darkness, knowing my dog was outside in the kennel, knowing I now had at least 2-3 hours' worth of soul-sucking drudgery ahead of me...and I did. not. care.

My next action was to roll back onto my side, bury myself under the covers, and wait for daylight to tackle the inevitable.

But alas, here's where my Type A, OCD, womanism kicked in and hard as I tried, I couldn't keep the fantasy alive. So at 5:18am, on a Saturday morning where I had every intention of waking up, sipping my cold brew while catching up on a Tell Me Lies episode...I threw on my ratty grey sweat pants, whatever dirty t-shirt I could grab off the closet floor, and went to serve my sentence.

I'll spare you the details, but what ensued was a combination of my continuous gagging, my dog's mouth foaming to try and remove the stink from the inside out, water, Dawn soap and baking soda flying, and the cattle blower being turned on full blast at a most ungodly hour.

It was pure dog parent bliss.

And, being the dutiful wife I am, at 9:30am sharp, I threw both boys in the kennel and headed to the show. I arrived just in time for the start, sat as far on the edge of the bleachers as I could, apologized profusely to everyone in a 6' vicinity, and watched my nephew take Grand Champion, and my niece take Reserve.

That night when we finally had a chance to speak, Andrew told me how proud he was that I hadn't "gone Italian on his ass". He also apologized profusely, and confessed his come-to-Jesus moment once he realized what had happened. Apparently there was a lot of soul-searching on what the "right" plan of action was.

It waffled between not telling me, leaving the dog in the kennel and driving away without ever stepping foot in the house. Or, what he ended up doing which was confessing his sins and hoping he'd live to see another day.

I told him I preferred Option B.

Thor still has the scar on his nose to prove this story happened. As much fun as he had chasing Mr. (or Ms.) Skunk, they appear to have taken just as much delight dousing him with perfume and leaving a token of their appreciation.

It's a story we've told many times over now. Everyone seems to see the humor in it...weird.

In any case, I'm grateful this Saturday morning's post was written to you without incident. I've learned one cannot overlook the intense feeling of peace that comes with waking up (on your own) and not having to bathe your double-coated, long-haired dog multiple times before the sun is up.

Here's to peaceful mornings!

-Charlie

P.S. Having unfortunately been promoted to title of "expert de-skunker", I can offer that the best formula I've found for this unholy situation is Dawn dish soap (knock-offs don't cut it - pun intended), baking soda, and Nature's Miracle Pet Odor Eliminator. Rinse, and repeat at least 2X. Godspeed!

P.P.S. Have you also been a victim of this tragic occurrence? If so, hit reply and let me know how you reacted. Absolutely no judgment - would love to hear of outrageous outbursts and live vicariously through you.