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Asimov (named that because he was born on the day Isaac Asimov died) knows enough to leave the short-legged cats alone -- both the ring-tailed ones with the black masks, and the black ones with the white stripes down their backs. They do Not Want to Play.
So, he was just sitting quietly on the grass across the sidewalk, watching the skunkly person nose about near the house, when I opened the front door to call him in. He stopped watching fascinatedly and took off at a run for the door.
Now, skunks are rather nearsighted, and have one default reaction. What it saw was something furry running (basically) towards it, so it defaulted. By the time Asimov got to the door, he was wet with skunkliness, and sneezing & wheezing.
I grabbed him, before he could start to rub himself against the wall to try to get it off, and a damp dishtowel, and sat down with him on my lap, wiping at his face to make sure nothing was in his eyes. Meanwhile, my husband (after quickly closing all the front windows) got a bucket and tipped in a pint of white vinegar. I dipped the towel and kept washing him.
Asimov seems to know when we're doing things to help him. Something Awful Has Happened, and we're doing Something Very Strange, so it must be in an attempt to help. He got wet and vinegary, without struggling to get away or complaining -- at least any more than he already was.
Fortunately, neither I nor my husband absolutely hate the smell of skunk, so long as it's not drifting in the air so eye-burningly. Because Asimov smelled like skunk, getting fainter & fainter, for about six weeks.
Editor's note:
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