Something's Rotten in Denmark

The garage sale was a modest success. Among other things, I unloaded a collection of wooden clothespins, eleven neckties, a box of mismatched guitar strings, and a Yamaha electronic piano.

The Yamaha was a relic from a former life, when I was the token chick in a chickless band down in The City. We played the usual venues -- bars, weddings, bars, bowling alleys, bars -- and were smashingly adequate. Those were the days when chick musicians were few and far. Those were also the days when my desk drawers were stuffed with cash. The desk was built by my grandfather in the 20's and sat in a corner of my mailbox-size third-floor apartment in the Old Neighborhood; the money was from gigs. A half dozen fistfuls of said cash were used to purchase the Yamaha, a top-of-the-line "portable" albatross that resembled a coffin when closed up.

That was 25 years ago. I've been schlepping it around ever since; rather, my husband has. We set it up, front and center, at the Bizarre Bazaar, and when a woman laid a C-note down on it toward the end of the second day, I swooned. When I recovered, having jettisoned momentarily back in time to some smoky roadhouse in South St. Paul, I closed the coffin lid on another bygone era and began assessing my take.

The sale was a success in spite of some less than positive karma. It rained continually the first day (at least it didn't snow). An outside porchlight disintegrated in my husband's hands as he was changing it. And our dog had a close encounter, with a skunk. The first two were manageable inconveniences; the skunk event changed things.

Raise your hand if you have ever...if the person standing next to you has ever...if any fur-bearing being in your immediate life has ever been sprayed dead-on by a skunk.

Just checking.

Meet my beloved dog, Stinkface.



Stinkface is not her birth name. My husband, not one to mince, rechristened her sometime during the wee hours last Saturday morning. This was several hours after she'd staggered blindly through the back door, blinking uncontrollably and barfing a trail of white sludge onto the rug. It took us roughly 1/20 of a second to realize what had happened. Rather, our noses realized. Although smell is not the only sense that comes into play in such a situation. You can actually taste Pepe Le Pew, way back in your throat. It's an experience you won't soon forget.

Then followed the mayhem of contacting a vet (this all took place just shy of midnight); tearing down to the all-night drugstore for ingredients (my husband cleared the aisles with his singular cologne); dousing Stinkface with the recommended concoction (anything containing peroxide can't get near the eyes, and seeing as she sustained a direct hit o' skunk to the face, well, one begins to warm to the new nickname); after which the humans involved stripped naked in the laundry room and slithered upstairs toward the shower. Next morning, I pry open my eyes, roll over and sit up (not unlike a dog), and announce cheerfully, "It's gone!!" To which my husband replies, "You're just used to it." One trip out to the garage then back into the house again proved him right.

Day Two of the Bizarre Bazaar radiated a certain ambience Day One lacked. More than a few shoppers paused on their way up our drive and looked questioningly toward the yard, where a rather bedraggled Husky, unused to being tethered, stared forlornly back from a safe distance. Although this didn't stop anyone from buying the Malibu car cover or the Knights of Columbus bottle opener or the State Fair Popeye doll. Curiously, no one seemed interested in the dog kennel. And such a good deal, too.

Now it's back to business as usual. Meaning, my husband can have his garage back. And I can have my sheets back. And, slowly but surely (very slowly), our erstwhile canine can have her name back. Which is, appropriately, "Daisy."