For Aquinnah, a too-close encounter with Pepé Le Pew

The culprit

You may be under the impression that skunks are nocturnal. Or perhaps you believe they’re crepuscular, meaning they like to make their rounds at twilight.

One, or perhaps both, of these claims may be true. But apparently the striped critter who let rip at our chocolate lab Aquinnah in broad daylight yesterday morning never got the memo explaining that skunks are not supposed to show their faces - or raise their tails - during the day.

Daytime activity can be a sign of rabies in skunks, but this little stinker wasn't acting aggressively. I think we just startled it at the entrance to its den, while it was poking around a little later in the day than usual.

Quinn (as we call Aquinnah) and I were returning to the house after walking around the block at 9 a.m. when “the incident” occurred. The sun was shining brightly. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. So, keeping an eye out for skunks - an obsession of mine when I take the dogs out at dawn or dusk - was the farthest thing from my mind.

The victim

Then it happened. As we rounded a brush pile, Quinn made a beeline for the brush. Seconds later, I saw Quinn’s nose about 18 inches from the working end of a small skunk, which was retreating from the encounter.

The skunk disappeared and I yanked the leash hard and fast. At first, I thought I had averted disaster. Then Quinn fell to the ground and began feverishly rubbing his snout in the grass.

That was the first sign that my reflexes had been a tad too slow. The second was the smell.

Actually, as skunk attacks go, this one wasn’t too bad. Near as we can tell, Quinn only took a direct hit on his face, not a broadside to his body. I did not get a skunk bath, even though I was right behind Quinn and a skunk can spray its musk 10 feet or more, according to The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mammals.

Still, corrective measures had to be taken. 

Exiling Quinn to the deck, my wife Liz quickly rinsed his eyes with water. She washed his face and head with Dawn dishwashing liquid and a liquid hand soap before spraying Febreze all over the house. As I write this, 90 minutes later, the poor guy is asleep on the living-room floor, exhausted and, seemingly, chagrined. But is he wise enough to avoid another close encounter of the stinky kind if he gets the chance? I doubt it.