Woke early; tea, toast, & marmalade; lovely weather; planned out my day. First we would walk along the beach at Scapa, then a lunch of homemade onion soup and a smoked salmon sandwich, then a stroll downtown and along the harbour, then spend the afternoon with tea, cookies, and a new book.
The beach was lovely. Until . . . . the ficking dead seal. I wasn’t watching her closely, and when I turned to look, she was rolling in dead seal. Freshly dead seal. What you see there are blood, guts, and bits of seal fur. FFS.
We kept walking, I mean what was the point of turning back right away? We might as well get the rest of the walk in. I made sure not to get too close (except when I had to clip on her leash). When we got back to the parking lot, I tied her to a handle of the car and grabbed the tea towel I keep in the car to wipe her muddy paws and soaked it in the ocean. I tried scrubbing off what I could. Then I lined the trunk (boot) with her rugs from the back seat and asked her to jump in. (I should mention that, for the first 8 1/2 years of her life, she would not jump into the car; she would put her front paws on the car seat, or the car frame, and wait for the back end to be lifted in by me. Only recently has she started jumping in without help.) Needless to say, she didn’t jump this time – I had to lean down and lift her while averting my face. Sigh.
We drove home with the windows open. I got into the house first and stripped down to my t-shirt & jeans, then went out and got her and led her into the shower. God, the stench. (Again, an aside: it wasn’t as pungent a smell as skunk, not by a long shot, but it is the odour of death, which comes with its own ‘ugh’ factor.) I started out outside the shower, just reaching in, but fast realised that wasn’t going to work. So into the shower I went, jeans and all. And have I mentioned the low water pressure? When we were done, I left her in the shower stall and waited for her to shake. She wouldn’t – I really should have taught her that command – so finally I caved and let her out. She promptly shook.
I can still smell it. After I gave her a shower, I gave the shower stall a shower, then I had a shower. Then I wiped down the bathroom, I washed the leash in the bathroom sink, the towels are in the washer for the first of at least two rounds, and they will be followed by the rugs, then my clothes.
I can still smell it. Is it on her? A bit still on me? Is it in my imagination? I’ve sprayed us both down with Chanel No 5.
Three hours of my life I’ll never get back.
She was so happy as she was rolling.
I don’t want to talk about it anymore.