"Madison, let's stop by the Humane Society and see what they have for dogs today," I said as we drove down Montana Avenue. It was a sunny day with puffy white clouds breezing through the sky. Prior to this announcement, Madison had completed her assigned 30 days of documented good deeds, doing chores without being told, and curbing her sassy attitude. Mind you, it was not 30 consecutive days, but 30 accumulated days over a period of about 2 months. Let's be real, it is hard for anyone, let alone a 12-year-old to be on top of their game day in and day out for 30 days.
Pulling into the parking lot, there were volunteers walking dogs, dogs barking, and the anticipation of what might greet us inside filled the truck. We were greeted by a friendly staff member who pointed us in the direction of the puppies. There was one in particular that stood out. A black and white puppy entertaining himself on his dog bed with a toy, we decided to see if we clicked.
"Jay" as he was called was about 4 months old, had a funny docked tail, and as eager as they come. He and Madison bonded within seconds. Not wanting to completely rock the boat of the household, I told her I would bring Tony out and see what he thought. After all, he was the dog person in the family. My mom would not allow a dog as a pet growing up because, well, dogs are a major commitment. Tony on the other hand had had multiple dogs growing up and in the last couple years prior to mine and Madison's entrance to his life had a Wheaton terrier that was dog-napped by a jilted ex-lover.
A couple of days later Tony and I visited Jay. Not completely thrilled but not completely put off, he agreed Jay would be a good fit for our family. He was used to designer dogs, not mutts from the rez. Visiting with the staff member, they told me Jay had been adopted and was waiting to be picked up by his new family. What? How could that be? Seething mad and throwing a look of disgust and disappointment at Tony for dragging his feet to the Humane Society, we left.
Three weeks later, I decided to pop into the Humane Society to see if any new dogs/puppies had been brought in ready to be adopted by a loving, responsible family. Low and behold, there sat Jay. I went straight to the desk, asked if he was available. He was. I filled out the paperwork, and Madison and I returned within the hour to pick him up.
Madison renamed him Tucker and the two became best friends. When she went to school or to visit her dad for the weekend, Tucker would go to her room, find a sock or two, and take them back to his kennel. I enjoyed taking him for walks in the morning, letting him sniff, pee, and explore before I headed off to work and Madison headed off to school. Finding his voice, more than once the neighbor came over complaining about the barking dog, Tony diffusing the situation by talking football with the disgruntled neighbor. When we moved to our house on Dearborn a couple of years later, an anonymous postcard arrived within a week about our barking dog. More than once I would yell at Tucker to stop barking only to find it was the neighbor's dog barking and not Tucker. Hmmmm....false accusations....imagine that.
As I have said multiple times to multiple people, Tucker was the best/worst dog a girl could have. Tony tried to turn him into a hunting dog (he looked like a lab/german shorthair mix), but while he liked the hunting idea, the loud bang from the gun was a little too much. He was the best indoor dog, lazy, snuggly, and a hoot when he would get excited and do the low butt run around the house. The worst outside because, well, he really liked to bark to let his pals know he was around. If the gate was left open, he was gone on an adventure to meet as many people and dogs as he possibly could.
Completely untrustworthy off-leash, he was always on the lookout for people and other dogs.
On one occasion some state workers found him, contacted me on Facebook through my "lost dog" post, and told me he was fine with them for the rest of the day because everyone loved him and were taking turns taking him for walks. That dog. Cars and trucks naturally all have dogs inside, so he would keep his eyes peeled for any pals he may be able to make while sitting at a red light and bark when he saw one or two.
About a month before he died, Madison brought him to White Sulphur Springs where I was staying a few nights. "Mom, Tucker really wants to stay with you," she said. "Oh, alright. Tucker can stay the night and I'll meet you in the morning before you head back to Bozeman," I replied.
Staying in "Elvis", the little camper my mom has on a house lot in White Sulphur, we snuggled in for the night. Waking me up at 4 in the morning to go to the bathroom, I let him out to do his business, and back he came getting snuggled in for a late morning sleep, or so I thought. 20 minutes later Tucker is restless. I open the door to the camper and Tucker leaps out, takes a hard right, barking and growling, receiving a face full of skunk spray from a family of skunks.
Seeing the yellow spray waft towards the camper, I close the door. "F***!!! GOD DAMN IT TUCKER!!!"
Again, the best/worst dog.
Skunk spray I was not prepared for. Looking around the camper, the only thing I can find to try and clean him off are disinfectant wipes. Well, that will have to do for the time being. Wiping his face, neck, and paws off, I look everywhere for a rope. Madison of course did not leave a leash because, for her, he listens and doesn't run off every chance he gets. Me on the other hand he has no respect for even though I have bailed him out of dog jail more than once, fed him, and taken him on adventures. Damn dog.
I find an extension cord, tie it to Tucker's collar, and tie him to the bumper of the camper, true white trash style. Lying in bed I start Googling "How to get skunk spray/smell off a dog". The best recipe I could find was hydrogen peroxide, vinegar, and dish soap. Hmmm...nothing opens in White Sulphur until 8 in the morning. Ok, Tucker just has to stay outside.
All I can smell is skunk. I had put the disinfectant wipes I used on Tucker in the bathroom. Ack!!! Throwing the wipes in a plastic bag, tying it off, I throw the bag outside.
"Tucker, don't look at me like that. It's your own damn fault you have to sleep outside!"
8 o'clock rolls around and I'm out the door to the grocery store on the east end of town. Finding what I need I head to the check-out. "Sorry if I smell like skunk. The dog got sprayed at 4 this morning," I tell the clerk. This, in turn, sets off an entire discussion among everyone within earshot of skunk and dog stories. Someone's neighbor's dog chased a skunk under their house and the skunk sprayed under the house which permeated throughout the entire house. Oy. Ok. It could be a lot worse than just the dog being sprayed. Yikes!!!!
Heading back to "Elvis" and Tucker, I mix up the first batch of what I hope is a de-skunking formula. Having no running water, I am thankful I have a case of water in the back of the car to rinse him off. Scrubbing Tucker with rubber gloves, he looks at me with the most pitiful look. I have no sympathy. None.
"This is what you get, Tucker, for f***ing around with skunks." Rinse him off, mix up another batch of de-skunking formula, and rinse him off again.
FYI, there is no such thing as a de-skunking formula. It helps a little bit but the only thing that gets rid of the skunk smell is time. Sorry, but that is the cold, hard truth. Don't let any bright, shiny blog post by a veterinarian or dog expert fool you otherwise.
"Madison, your damn dog got sprayed by skunks at 4 this morning," I complained through the phone. "I don't want to put him in the car because he still smells like skunk."
"Mom, we have to be back in Bozeman by 10:30," she responds. "Ugh, fine. I will meet you at the highway on my way back to Helena," I grumble back.
I load Tucker up, skunk smell and all, and we are off. Windows down, he lays in the back seat looking pitiful. Hmmmm...that's not normal. Usually, he is biting at the windows as they go down, hanging his head out, and barking at any dog he sees. Let's hope he has learned a lesson, I think to myself. One thing about Tucker is he is a vain dog and when he gets embarrassed, he is a model dog for a day or two.
Handing Tucker back to Madison, I give her a hug and a kiss, hand over the bag of leftover de-skunking supplies, and send them on their way.
I love that dog, but god damn he is a complete pain in the ass.
A month later when he died, he still smelled like skunk. Rest in Peace, Skunk Dog. You were the best/worst dog and you touched a lot of hearts.
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