I know I said in my last post that my skunked cardigan was beyond help. Still, I went ahead and left it outside — hanging on the hose reel — in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, it would air out and be OK again. Denial is a powerful thing. Having said that, even if it was ruined, I really didn’t feel up to dealing with it yet. A cardigan like that can’t just get tossed in a trash can like some fume-soaked rag. You can’t give it away. You oughtn’t drown it in a river. Bad form! My solution? I was considering burying it somewhere in the back yard — perhaps it would fertilize things. It certainly couldn’t hurt. But I wasn’t strong enough to face it yet. So there it sat, sorrowful, wooly, and extremely redolent. But getting less so…

Then tonight another skunk struck. Right outside of our house. Is there a fucking convention around here, or something?

Anyway, so much for my sweater. It stinks again.

I know. I’m an idiot. I should’ve tried airing it out in our back yard. What skunk is going to brave all of that concrete? And if they did? They’d die from despair before they’d have a chance to let loose. But even the back yard is far from safe. In fact, it’s clear that airing my sweater out in this bio-berserk neighborhood is not going to end well. Even if it doesn’t get skunked again, it’ll get shat on by an owl. Or masticated by a rat. Or nested in by a black widow.

But all of this gives me an idea…coyotes are scavengers, right?

Excuse me. I have a field trip to take. Here, little cur! Aren’t you cooooooold?