Having been genetically engineered by his father, Chickie, who made a mule look compliant, and his mother, double dense Ginger, Stinky managed to get “the best of both worlds” and was both stubborn and stupid. Oh, and not to mention his distinctive and persistent puppy-pee odor.
To preface, you may recall the previous blog about the infamous expressway incident. And you may also recall that my human child raced motorcycles from the age of 7 on.
A refresher, just in case: Stinky, one of the puppies my son brought home in his ongoing quest to populate our house with otherwise rejected animals, was a hound dog, blond, freckled, and, as referenced above, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. And, to further set the stage, this event occurred back in the days before leash-laws, when kids and dogs ran free.
My son was probably about eleven or twelve at the time. We were going about our usual daily activities when suddenly we heard loud and frantic yipping and yiping outdoors. In through the open door came Stinky, wide-eyed, panicked, and rolling around on the carpet. What the heck?! What could have happened? Had he been hit by a car? (His father Chickie had a bad habit of chasing cars from the front, and Stinky did seem to inherit the negative traits.) Stinky seemed to be moving with too much agility to have broken bones. Maybe he got knicked by a car and was being a drama queen? But, no, he seemed genuinely distressed. Finally, my son was able to grab the dog and pick him up, carrying him to try to comfort him. Stinky continued to wriggle and yap while my son patted him gently on the back. And then….BELCH!!! A huge burp emanated from the small dog. And then…a new smell. Not puppy pee. Gasoline!!! What the heck?! “Where could Stinky have gotten into gas?” I asked. “Oh, no!” exclaimed my boy, “I was soaking my chain.” (In reference to the motorcycle chain.) We ran outside and, sure enough, the chain was lying in the otherwise very empty flat pan by the back porch. Stinky had drunk the gasoline. Every drop. Didn’t spill a bit.
Not knowing quite what to do, and, at that point of my life, not having funds for a vet visit, we did the next best thing. We sequestered Stinky in the kitchen with newspapers covering the floor and fed him water and milk, hoping to somehow dilute and neutralize the gas. And somehow it worked. Stinky peed a lot (which for the moment at least yielded an explanation for his characteristic odor), and he was ultimately okay.
After the expressway incident and the belch, I am amazed and happy to report that Stinky managed, from that point, to lead a relatively uneventful — albeit stinky — life.