Dancing the Bolero in my SUV

I was listening to the classical music station while driving the 15 minutes home from town the other day, and a piece of music came on the radio that I hadn’t heard in a long time. A piece of music that is steeped in my family’s lore. A piece of music about which no one can be neutral.

I’m talking about Maurice Ravel’s Bolero.

I don’t know that I remember the very first time I heard this famous piece of music, but I do remember the first time I was old enough to understand my mother’s feelings about it.

She was not amused.

In fact, if there is any piece of classical music that my mother can be said to hate, it would be Bolero. I think mom’s issue with it is that she hates the repetition of it and she hates the way it makes her heart beat in the rhythm of the drums.

Mom is not a fan of drums.

My father and sister, on the other hand, love it. My dad’s love for it might come more from teasing my mom about it than from real love, I’m not sure. My sister, though, will turn the music up loud and dance around the house and, if I know her, collapse on the floor dramatically at the culmination. Well, if she doesn’t, she should.

The first time I remember hearing Bolero, I decided that I hated it, too. I decided this for several reasons. One being that it was different than anything I’d heard before, and was, therefore, suspect. (My parents listened exclusively to classical music, but this was NOT like the usual stuff they listened to.)

But the main reason I disliked it was that Mom disliked it.

Now I don’t disparage my mom at all in this telling – everyone is entitled to their opinion and, as a mom myself now, I know how hard it is to never express my opinion on anything and thereby impact my children’s opinions about those very things. It’s impossible. And our kids pick up on that.

When I first heard Bolero, I was at the age where whatever my mom thought, I thought as well. I remember looking at the Sears catalog with Mom once (remember those honking huge catalogs, the stuff of dreams and visions and uplift for short guests at the dinner table?) and every dress that she liked, I liked. I remember echoing her views about the dresses, and my sister saying scornfully, “You only like that because Mom likes it.”

“I do not!” I said. But suddenly it dawned on me that I did.

It was the beginning of autonomy.

But I had not yet reached that when Bolero came along.

And so, for many years (not giving a lot of thought to Ravel or his Bolero) I disliked it.

And then one day, along about late high school or early college, it dawned on me that I actually liked Bolero! I actually got a kick out of the repetition, the change in each repeat, the different instruments entering in (and trying to identify those instruments as they did so), the rise in volume and intensity. I especially liked the rapid slide at the end, signifying the dancer’s collapse on the stage in an exhausted heap. (At least in my mind that’s always what happens at the end!)

All these thoughts went through my mind as we drove home the other day – dancing along as best I could while in the driver’s seat – listening to Bolero.

And my daughter, in all her five-year old wisdom, said (without prompting), “I don’t like this music! Can we listen to something else?”

I laughed out loud and turned up the volume.

Being very careful to keep my opinions to myself as I did so.

When we got home, I stopped the car in the driveway and we listened to the last couple minutes. I laughed in delight when it came to a crashing end.

My daughter’s response? “Finally it’s over! Can I put on Veggie Tales now?”

I found this link to Bolero on You Tube and it’s 5 minutes of your life that will not be wasted if you give it a watch. It is vastly shortened from its usual 15 or so minutes, but that’s fine – you can find the whole thing on You Tube or anywhere else if you like.

This is a “flash-mob” made up of members from the Copenhagen Philharmonic in Copenhagen’s Central Station. I love the way the musicians gradually enter in (which is so perfect for Bolero, as it’s a gradually building piece of music), and the realization that dawns on the faces of the audience as they sit on the floor, point, whisper, and clap wildly at the end.

I absolutely love this video.

If you’d rather watch it actually on You Tube, click below.

Ravel’s Bolero

Tags: Bolero, children and classical music, Classica Music, family, Maurice Ravel, opinion, Ravel's Bolero

An Uninvited Neighbor Makes For An Interesting Day

One sunny morning two springs ago, I was sitting at my computer when my son (who was home from school for the day with a nasty cold) came up to me and, while looking out the window said, “Mom, there’s a pig in the yard.”

I, without even looking up, replied, “No, there’s not.”

“Well,” said he, “then it’s a weird looking dog.”

I looked up this time, glanced out the window, and said, “Actually it looks more like a sheep.” At which point I returned to my writing, hoping this pig/dog/sheep would just go away.

It didn’t.

In fact, though it had been heading east, into the fields and away from our yard, it suddenly turned around and headed back into the greener pastures of our front lawn.

I told my son to get the binoculars.

After applying said instrument to my eyes I saw that my son’s initial judgment was correct. It was indeed a pig. In my yard. Uninvited.

Is it a bird? Or a plane? No. It's a pig.

After going out on the deck and confirming – on film, even – that the pink creature appeared to be here to stay, I began to wonder what on earth I was supposed to do about it. Doing nothing seemed to be a very bad option. So did chasing it into, say, the garage.

I chose to get a second opinion.

Now there will be some of you who, if you’ve been reading me for long, know exactly who I called first. That would be the same person I called in the skunk vs. cat issue and the pheasant-though-my-front-window incident. That’s right: my husband.

It’s not that I’m an incapable woman, unable to handle things on my own or to think for myself. It’s just that, when faced with the bizarre or stressful, he’s the guy I’m glad to have on my side.

That and I always value a second opinion.

That and I don’t always have very good first opinions.

You got to admit. He was an unusual guest.

The phone rang in his office. Given that when I usually call it’s nothing exciting, he can’t have had any premonition of weirdness. That’s what makes these phone calls to him so fun.

Me: “You’re never going to believe what’s in our front yard.”

Him: “Not another window-breaking pheasant?”

Me: “No, but the animal kingdom is a good place to begin.”

Him: “Tell me.”

Me: (Wanting to play the guessing game a little longer but, realizing that I’m interrupting him at work, I capitulate.) “A pig.”

Him: Silence. And then laughter.

The upshot of the deal was that I called our three farmer neighbors who have pig barns – none of which are closer than ¾ of a mile away – and none of which were home. I then called our other neighbor over the hill and asked him if he just maybe knew anything about it. He didn’t.

I then called the sheriff, because it just seemed like the thing to do.

I was watching the pig out the window through all my phoning. He had found a nice little shady place beneath some pine trees that he kinda liked.

Heading into his favorite pine trees.

I couldn’t help but think of Wilbur. And Babe. And bacon.

The sheriff told me to phone around – as I had done – and that, if no one claimed him within a week, the piggy was ours.

“A week!” I thought, hanging up the phone. “What am I supposed to do with a pig in my yard for a week?!”

Well, as the day went on, one neighbor called, and, having established that the errant pig was not a baby, (“No,” I said, “he’s way bigger than that.”) he said it couldn’t be theirs.

We kept watching him. Sometimes he’d disappear only to show up again an hour later and return to his cool wet place under the trees.

Finally another neighbor returned my call and, sure enough, they’d sold some pigs that morning and it was possible that one of them escaped without notice.

They came over on their ATV. They searched. And searched. He was nowhere to be found.

A very large part of me was rooting for Wilbur at this point. I’d taken a shine to this wayward porcine. I had visions of him trotting off into the sunset, a smile on his face, savoring every breath of free air afforded him. “This is the life!” he thought (in my imagination), “freedom and the open road!”

But then they found him – so far under the pine trees that none of us had seen him – dozing the afternoon away.

He was rudely awakened.

He ran.

And ran. And ran.

More help was brought in. Help that carried a gun.

He was good at hide and seek. Well...he was good at hiding, anyway.

All my imagined stories came crashing down. I didn’t want his break for freedom to end this way.

But, the truth was, he was “compromised”. He was out of the carefully controlled habitat that is required for piggies, which meant that he could not be sold commercially. He could either A) turn into a 4-H project or B) be shot. I don’t think that A) was ever really an option.

By this time my daughter had gotten off the bus and my son had filled her in on all the excitement.

We made sure they were both in the house when the shot rang out from the back yard.

The writer side of me wants a better ending to this story. Wants to turn it into a children’s picture book, with talking pigs and wise, encouraging birds. Wants to illustrate him – a bandana tied to a stick over his shoulder – as he trots away across the fields.

Such a good book.

But sometimes reality gets in the way of all that.

I know that the truth of the matter is he would never have survived, had he wandered off and eluded his farmer.

But still, it makes me sad.

That’s why I write fiction. It’s much easier to control than real life.

Tags: Charlotte's Web, front yard, neighbors, pig

Breakfast: the Most Important Meal of the Day

I realize that I’m an optimist, but wouldn’t you think, that in this day and age, they could come up with a better way of opening cereal bags?

I did not grow up eating cereal. Instead, our mom would wake up every morning at, I believe, 5:30. She would read her Bible and pray, and then she would make us pancakes or waffles or eggs or French toast or some other lovely breakfast thing. Then, after devouring our tasty meal we’d sit while Dad read devotions and prayed and then we’d rush off to the bus stop for another day, our tummies filled with the most important meal of the day – and, of course, lots of love to top us off.

I remember, incidentally, that there were days I was convinced that Dad was praying far too long and that I was going to miss the bus. Being the youngest I wondered (in the middle of the prayer) if possibly I’d missed some secret signal that had previously been set up by my sisters that would alert our dad to the idea that he was praying too long.

I would cough. Sometimes more than once. I would wiggle. I would sniff. I would do anything to let Dad know that, by golly, if he didn’t stop praying so long he was going to have to drive us to school.

I don’t think he ever stopped due to my coughing. Probably prayed longer, even.

And, truth be told, I never missed the bus.

The morning view as I drive into town - just across the field from our house.

But back to the cereal.

I remember being at the military commissary with my mom once and begging her to buy Apple Jacks cereal. Now, my mom was not one to give in to tactics such as begging, comparing, or otherwise cajoling. In fact, she, like Dad ignoring my coughing, probably would resist buying something the more I bothered her about it.

But, for some unknown reason, she gave in that day. Perhaps she was feeling ill or weak or simply kind – all I know is, she bought the Apple Jacks – that green box we still see on the grocery store shelves today.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

And then came breakfast the next day. I was so excited. I was over the moon! Apple Jacks for breakfast!!

Yep. You guessed it. I hated them.

Yep. You guessed it again. Mom was quite cross.

Another morning shot.

I recall the same thing happening one day when I insisted that yes, I did want an egg salad sandwich for lunch. “Yes,” I insisted, “I love egg salad. Yes, I will eat every bite.”

Mom asked me again. Clarified. Looked puzzled.

I insisted.

Yep, I hated it. Still am not a fan.

Those are the only two times I recall Mom giving in to my bizarre food desires. And, to be honest, I don’t blame her for resisting, given my track record.

Sunrise.

As for the cereal thing, I still don’t care for it. I eat a couple kinds, but I’d far rather have yogurt and fruit with granola on top than a bowl of cereal with milk.

And as for opening those cereal bags…it’s the most annoying thing since forever.

‘Cause, you see, I am not near the mother my mom was – I give my kids cereal for breakfast. None of this homemade goodness from me. And, quite frankly, I’m done feeling guilty about it.

Or I thought I was until I wrote this post…

Tags: breakfast, cereal, devotions, egg salad, miss the bus

A few Awards!

Blogging has many rewards. I am meeting new friends – that’s YOU – through your comments and many of your own blogs, and I am getting a chance to write, which is the reason I began to blog in the first place.

I resisted blogging for a long time – mostly because I believed I didn’t have time for it. Well, as it turns out, we make time for that which we love. The trick, of course, is to continue to do the other necessary things as well as the blogging.

Which means I better hush up and go do the dishes.

But quickly, let me tell you about two nice blogging honors I have received in the past few weeks. First, Betsy over at Bits and Breadcrumbs. She has recipes, a sense of humor, and lovely photographs of her food! Plus, I love her blog’s name. Thank you so much, Betsy, and thank you for being patient with my response! (By the way, my son would have been “Betsy” had he been a girl…but we’re pretty thankful that he was himself instead!)

Betsy was kind enough to award two honors at once: The Kreativ Blogger Award and the Sunshine Award, which was also awarded to me by Renee at CravesAdventure . Renee is an encourager. And an adventurer. She is a positive force of nature! I appreciate her outlook as well as her photographs of places she’s been and things she’s done. More than just a travel blog, hers is a happiness blog.

Thank you both so very much for these kind awards! I appreciate the mention on your blog and I am very glad to be a part of the blogosphere with you!

I guess there are some rules when receiving these awards. I have to answer a few questions and I have to nominate a few bloggers!

So…the questions:

Favorite color: Bright red
Favorite number: 3
Favorite animal: Koala – though I’ve never seen one in person! Or maybe a Manatee – but that’s sounds politically correct, and I’m nothing if not rebellious against political correctness…
Favorite non-alcoholic drink: coffee
Facebook or Twitter: Facebook, although Twitter is beginning to look more professionally important.
My passion: writing (surprise, surprise!)
Getting gifts or receiving them: I love both!
Favorite pattern: Tartan – preferably Fraser!
Favorite day of the week: Sunday
Favorite flower: Daisy

Now for the nominees!!!

Storytelling Nomad – Katy is on the same road to becoming a writer that I am on and she often posts things that I can very much relate to. She is Australian and I must say that I just wish I could hear all of my Australian and New Zealand blogger friends actually speaking because, of course, being American I love a good Australian accent! But that aside, hers is a blog I definitely appreciate.

Whatimeant2say – If you need a laugh, this is the place to go for one. This blogger – let’s call her Mrs. Cap’n Firepants (not to be old fashioned, but to use the name she uses for her husband) – writes daily about her omnivorous bulldog and anything else that comes to mind…all of which she makes humorous. Who knew that even driving one’s daughter to school could be a source of hilarity? I so want to come up with pseudonyms for my family, but I can’t possibly do as well as she has.

You’re a Writer! Valerie has a very helpful blog for those on the writing trail. She posts practical advice, giving good examples of whatever she’s discussing – grammar, resources, writing style, etc. She brings a lot of experience to her blog and I am certain that many people could benefit from her useful information.

Tags: kreative blogger award, other good blogs, sunshine award

Bordering on Blasphemy

I cannot sew. I mean, I can do a straight line okay - so long as I remember how to use my sewing machine - but  let me make it perfectly clear: to call myself a seamstress would be to boarder on blasphemy.

When I was in 8th grade Home Economics class, I made a skirt.  With stripes I had to match.  I managed to put the zipper in under much tutelage from my mom.  Turns out I put it in backwards – like for a boy – so my teacher made me do the whole thing over.  I’m not positive that I can point  my entire mental block about sewing to that moment in time, but I think it’s a fair cop.

My woeful sewing skills came to a head this fall when my sisters and I set out to make a quilt for our mother for Christmas.

Allow me to explain a couple of things.

My oldest sister is a fabulous seamstress. She makes marvelous quilts and crafts and clothes. She makes them quickly, and she makes them perfectly. She has a new sewing machine that can make anything except dinner.

Our other sister is a fabulous crafter. She carves, sculpts, glues, cuts, welds, and owns an excavator. What this has to do with sewing I don’t know, I just felt compelled to point it out.

She also sews.

And then there’s me. An optimist who thinks she can sew but really can’t. An optimist who once made a quilt without a pattern (because I’m too lazy to follow directions) and who forgot how to thread her sewing machine because it had been sitting idle for approximately 8 years.

My quilt had zero diagonals, zero tricks. I walked into Hobby Lobby, bought a bunch of fabric I liked, went home and made the quilt. I added two borders because I wanted it larger.

The quilt I made 8 years ago, sans pattern.

I am rather good with borders. Nice, easy, straight lines – I can handle that.

So my sister – the sewer – asks me if I think I can participate in The Great Quilt Project for Mom. I said yes.

(Remember: I’m an optimist.)

She sent a packet of instructions and cut fabric, oh, maybe August. Lots of time before Christmas.

I sat on it for, oh, maybe 4 months. (Remember: I’m lazy. I’m also a procrastinator. I’m also a people-pleaser. None of these things made for a good situation come last Thanksgiving when I finally admitted to myself, “Shoot. I can’t possibly do this.…”)

My sister – the sewer – had said to me when she sent the squares, “Just let me know if you can’t do it, mail the stuff back, and that will be fine.”

She’s very kind and very wise.

And so, along came Thanksgiving, which, as you know, is close to December, which, as you know, is the month wherein lies Christmas…and the due date of this surprise quilt.

I called my sister. “I can’t do it!!!!!!”

“I told you that if you couldn’t do it to just let me know.” She is NOT cross, she is NOT hollering, she is NOT even being quiet and fuming. She was possibly laughing to herself; I’m not sure.

So I mailed back the packet of fabric, the directions, the carefully cut strips of fabric in pristine zip-lock bags, the brand-new roller blade thingy for my rolly-cutter thing….

Too bad I couldn’t mail back the 4 months I’d sat on the project.

When we went out to Washington to be with my family for Christmas, my dear sister – the sewer – sat beside me while I sewed – in nice, easy, straight lines – the border for the quilt, on her fabulous new sewing machine that can make anything except perhaps procrastinators hurry.

I had border experience, after all.

She allowed me – nay, WANTED me – to do this so that we could say we all three made the quilt for Mom.

Do I have a wonderful sister, or what?

I have, as a matter of fact, two wonderful sisters. Their quilt squares were so fantastic I can’t even tell you.

My borders set them off perfectly.

The quilt in question - along with (from left to right) the excavator-driving sister, the sewing sister, and our mama. Isn't the boarder perfect?!

Tags: quilting, sewing, sisters

The Peculiars – A book review

Several weeks ago I received in the mail an uncorrected proof of a soon-to-be-released book , The Peculiars, written by a friend of mine, Maureen Doyle McQuerry. How fun it was to hold her book in my hands! I heard her read the first chapter or so of the book aloud when I met her two years ago, and I had waited all this time to learn what happens. I was not disappointed!

And so I present to you here my official first-ever book review! I was honored when Maureen asked me to write the review. I was also afraid! I wanted to do a good job, to do justice to the book, to be honest and readable and relevant. I read the book twice, taking notes the second time, and then I sat down at my favorite coffee shop and set to work. It wasn’t as terrifying as I thought it would be! However, it was hard in that there is so much that could be said, so much I had to leave out…not becuase there was a strict rule of word count (that I was aware of) but because I, as a reader, know that short is best when it comes to reviews. When I’m reading a review I am not going to plow though paragraph after paragraph…short and sweet, please!

But, that being said, I didn’t want to tell the plot or give away secrets…it’s a fine balance.

So I wrote about Lena, the heroine, who, I discovered, I could truly relate to. I’ve been in her too-trusting shoes, though, to be sure, her shoes would never have fit me…

The Peculiars is available now on Amazon and Barnes and Noble web sites, as well as in discerning book stores! It is written for a YA (Young Adult) audience, though as you’ll see in my review I’d recommend it for almost any age. It is published by Amulet books, an imprint of Abrams.  It is currently available in  both hardback and Kindle versions ($10.95 and $9.99, respectively).

P.S. – I have always loved the word, “peculiar” – I like words that you have to work at to pronounce correctly! 

The Peculiars, by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

Lena Mattacascar has lived her whole life being scrutinized by her mother and grandmother, watched constantly for signs of wild thoughts, goblinish behaviors, and anything that might prove her heritage which for so many years has been kept hidden or explained away.

Lena’s father, a suspected goblin, who abandoned his family when Lena was small, has come back into her life via a letter he left for her 18th birthday. Lena is determined to discover just exactly who her father is and, ultimately, who she herself is.

So she sets out alone on a quest into a world of steam trains, dirigibles, and gas-powered lights, a world where science trumps superstition and criminals and “peculiars” are sent to Scree, a wild land where they are forced to work in the mines for a government that considers them soulless and expendable.

Yet this is the place Lena knows she must go to find her father. Along the way she meets friends and foes, people who love her and people who suspect her overly-long fingers and feet as signs of her peculiarity, her valuelessness.

Lena, while unwavering in her purpose, is far less sure of her own self. For the first time in her life she is out on her own, an obedient girl going against her mother’s wishes, full of fears and desires and self-doubt. Through deceit, discovery, flying machines, and adventure, Lena discovers not only who she is, but also that what we think we see may not be what is truly there; that who we think we are may be completely wrong…or completely right.

Well-researched and carefully written, McQuerry has written a relatable book that I can recommend equally to my 10 year old daughter and my 75 year old mother, as well as to anyone who is intrigued by fanciful machines, adventure, and even budding romance. I look forward to the sequel that is surely on its way.

`

Tags: book review for The Peculiars, Maureen Doyle McQuerry, The Peculiars

A CATastrophe, for Sure

I had too many rags anyway. Old t-shirts, unraveling towels, washcloths…

Now about ten of them are in the dumpster…along with two pairs of rubber gloves and about 6 pairs of vinyl ones ‘cause why use one when two will do, the kids figure.

What was the cause of this decidedly un-green moment in our lives? This moment that was the culmination of this day of odors and springtime shenanigans?

Allow me to explain.

Living in the country presents interesting opportunities for us to interact with the local inhabitants…the four-legged ones.
Now that we have a cat, the interactions have become more…intense.

I stare down hawks in nearby trees, suspecting them of nefarious intent.

I warn off the birds that I so love, in hopes that the cat won’t have them for lunch.

And, of course, I dread skunks.

Well, sadly, my worst skunk fears came true. It was a very spring-like day: a little chilly, a little rainy, and, apparently, just perfect for creatures to check out the neighborhood after their long winter’s naps.

It began with the tell-tale skunky smell that reached my nostrils as I ate my Special K. But soon after came another smell. A smell I didn’t recognize.

This new smell was kinda like burning rubber…only it wasn’t so acrid. Mostly what it was, was musky. I couldn’t identify it beyond that. I wandered around the house, sniffing at windows and doors.

Nope. Not my son’s dirty laundry.

Nope, not the smelly organic fertilizer that was the last mystery scent in my house.

Nor was it the kitchen garbage, though admittedly it needed to go out.

Finally, while standing at the deck door and scratching my head at the unidentifiable stench, our cat streaked by like calico lightening, heading around the house toward the open garage.

I opened the door. I sniffed again. Not pleasant.

Puzzled, I followed the cat to the garage where I found her flopping around strangely. She ran to hide beneath my car. I grabbed my trusty Mag-Lite – the kind you could brain a robber with – and shone it on her face, now peering out at me from a cupboard where she’d run to hide.

She was wet, bedraggled, muddy, scared, and her eyes were squeezed almost totally shut. And, the scariest thing, her mouth and chest were covered with foam. In addition, she smelled to high heaven of this unidentifiable musky stench.

Taken about 15 minutes after the horrible event. Still freaked out - and mohawked - and terribly forlorn.

Turns out that the typical scent we identify as “skunk” is kind of the “edge” of the stench, the smell which dissipates into the air and you pass in your car with prayers of thankfulness that it wasn’t you who hit the poor critter.

But when a skunk gets you full on, it smells different. It smells primal. It smelled just like my cat. I could almost see the stench rising in wavy cartoonic lines from her dripping fur.

The poor kitty! She’s been feeling a wee bit cooped up, I think, what with her three-week old kittens and all (what new mom can’t relate?!) and her mouse-catching instincts (she’s a great mouser – always gifting us with the horrid things) were kicking into full gear. I could just hear her train of thought, “This black and white creature must be a strange rabbit!!”

I’m hoping – nay, praying – that she has learned her lesson.

She didn’t give me much time to stare. In an instant of freaked-out-kittyness, she leaped out of the cupboard, back under my car, and into the box where her three kittens waited patiently for their second breakfast.

She looked up at me from slitted eyes, still foaming, still bushy-tailed and mohawked. Never before have I seen such a pitiful creature.

Analysis began. What is this foamy stuff all over her mouth and chin that’s dripping onto the kittens? And why is she so muddy? Is this really skunk? Or is this going to turn out like Old Yeller and am I going to have to consol my unconsolable daughter tonight as we build a wooden cross over freshly-turned dirt and could I possibly write a story about it?

Is she going to leap up in some acrobatic stunt and bite me – or her babies?

Is she injured? No. Just frightened…and stinky!!!!

This has got to be a skunk.

I stayed watching her for a long time to make sure she wasn’t going to turn into an insane monster. She hissed at me, twice, but can you even blame her?

I went inside the house and phoned my husband at work.

“Umm…I’m fine, our children are fine, our cat is not so fine.”

While I waited for him to arrive I researched rabies and distemper on the internet. What would we do without these self-diagnostic tools?

When my husband walked in the house the first words out of his mouth were, “Yep, skunk.” He knew what I did not – that full-in-the-face skunk smells like whatever-it-was that was now wafting through our house due to her proximity to the garage/house door, and that it actually now smelled WORSE in the house than it did outside.

After I called the vet and my husband rinsed the cat’s eyes with saline as per their advice, I waved goodbye as he drove off to a clean-smelling office and I was left to open every window in the house – some of which hadn’t been opened in years.And of course, this was a day that began with frost on the ground and it wasn’t yet 9a.m….in other words, it got really cold in the house really fast.

The poor wee kitty didn’t settle down to feed her babies for a long time, but they were fine…just a little smelly! She was licking them after about 2 hours, as well as nursing them.

I phoned around for some home-grown wisdom about removing skunk stink from kittys. The upshot: we tried both the vet’s recommended Odor Mute and also a mixture of Dawn dish soap (for the oils in the skunk spray), baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide. We thought that, as she got it FULL IN THE FACE and was literally dripping with liquid stench, she might need more than one bath.

"Oh, what's this? For me? You shouldn't have."

And so we dove in to the bathing process. First, the vet-recommended concoction. I wiped repeatedly at her face with a sponge dripping with the stuff while my husband held her TIGHT in an old roasting pan full of Odor Mute and warm water.

I don’t think that roasting pan had ever held such an unappetizing thing.

Fun times.

She bit me once – and I can’t blame her – but with my trusty kitchen rubber gloves, I was fine. She scratched a wee bit, but then she settled down, resigned, I suppose, to the indignity of it all.

Or, perhaps she knew we were helping her?

Then, after she’d soaked in that for several minutes, we turned to the other mixture of 1 quart hydrogen peroxide, 1 teaspoon liquid Dawn dish detergent, and ½ cup baking soda (thank you, Brian and Jodi!). Only we added too much soap, but I think it was okay!

"Okay...this is REALLy un-fun," says Copernicus.

After that was done, we moved on to the kittens while poor Copernicus (yes, that’s our cat’s name…don’t ask) ran out of the garage, shivering and unhappy. (Why was the door open, you ask? Because it SMELLED in there!!!)
Then we washed the kittens, which went fairly well, considering.

Kitten's turn!

When we were all done, and all the kittens were being cuddled and rubbed dry, my husband sought out Copernicus. He spotted her, huddled beneath the deck, and approached her with very little hope that she’d allow him to pick her up.

She didn’t move a muscle.

One sad kitty.

He brought her in and we wrapped her in a dry towel – then traded that one for yet another – and soon she, like the kittens, was looking less like a bedraggled mess and more like the cat we all knew and loved.

It is now a couple hours after the baths. The excitement has left me worn out. The kittens are warm and dry. Their mama actually smells quite good (we’ll see what we think tomorrow and decide if a second fun-time bath-time is in order) and even the clothes we were wearing have come out of the wash smelling like roses…as opposed to Pepe Le Pew.

Afterwards...

I am overwhelmed with smells right now. Air fresheners, soap, even coffee smells bad at this moment in time.
And don’t even get me started on skunk musk.

I need a hot cup of tea. And bed.

Can you tell my sense of humor has fled? Just the facts, ma’am. I’m too tired to crack a smile.

Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, we won’t have to bathe her again tomorrow…

My mama told me there’d be days like this. I just didn’t believe her.

Dry and happy in their new digs!

P.S.: Good news! Even though the creek did rise in the night (and a good thing, we needed the rain!), it’s the next day and she still smells nice! Horray! This ordeal may indeed be over.

Please, somebody, tell me that cats are smart enough to learn their lesson that black and white “rabbits” aren’t to be messed with!!

Tags: cats, how to remove skunk smells from pets, living in the country, Odor Mute