So, it’s the Thursday before the 4th of July. I’m psyched because I have 4 days off from work.

Betting on black Ilene

The mood is ebullient in the house. “Ah, we can relax, chill out, I can paint, George can putter, no alarm clocks, four whole days. Heaven.” Sounds great, right? Keep reading.

Early evening rolls around. We are bombarded by a terrible thunderstorm, complete with torrential rain and lightning like crazy. Our dogs are going berserk. One of them, Jax, shoves himself between our loveseat and a small cabinet.

He sits facing the wall trembling and panting. The other one, Peaches, doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s running back and forth, leaping from couch to love seat with no regard for the pain she is inflicting on me and George.

I have the bruises and cuts to prove it. Finally, after over an hour, the storm abates. It’s still raining but the thunder and lightning cease. The dogs calm down and I bandage my cuts.

George goes into our main bathroom. Seconds later, I hear a distinctively feminine-sounding scream. I run to the door of the bathroom and see that water is pouring through our ceiling vent. (Okay, maybe not pouring. It may have been a drip. But it was a STEADY drip.) We run around like the Keystone Kops, George pulling down the attic stairs and me getting a bowl to catch the drip.

Turns out there is a leak in our roof, dripping into the attic and then through our vent. Fabulous. George sticks a pan under the leak to catch the water and then immediately goes onto the internet to find a reputable roofing company. We then notice that our porch roof is leaking as well. In three places. I am in a deep sulk at this point, saying things like: “Well, I guess we can sit on our new roof and call it our vacation this year,” and “I hate home ownership,” and “Let’s just chuck it and move.”

So now we have pans and bowls and a Coleman cooler under the leaks. It’s like a freaking upside-down splash park in our house and porch.

After all this excitement, we are exhausted. Time for bed. I take the dogs out back for their last potty break. Peaches immediately runs to the darkest corner of our yard and goes ballistic, barking like crazy at something on the other side of the fence.

There’s thick foliage back there so I couldn’t see what she was barking at. Jax runs over to join the chorus. All the while, I am yelling for them to “go pee-pees.”

They stop barking abruptly. Silence. And then coughing and hacking and spitting. I knew immediately that they got sprayed by a skunk, even before I smelled it.

For some reason, I find this hysterically funny. I am laughing my head off. I yell into the house for George to come out. He absolutely hates the smell of skunk (I mean, really, who doesn’t?).

Peaches runs up to us, and she reeks. I pick here up and smell her to see if she got fully sprayed or just walked into the mist. Spoiler alert: she got fully sprayed.

This dog smelled like burning rubber, strong onions, and I don’t know what else. It’s a smell I’ll never forget. Jax comes trotting up and I smell him. He did not get fully sprayed but he ran into the mist and smells bad enough.

Again, Keystone Kops—George is running around closing bedroom doors so they don’t jump on any furniture, I’m yelling for him to get the Dawn dish washing detergent and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, all the while trying to corral the dogs in the bathroom.

Long story short, we bathed both dogs. Peaches got three sudsings and rinsings. Jax wasn’t as bad so he only got one washdown. All the while, George is gagging and choking while holding each dog in the tub.

From the cheerful ambience of earlier, to being soaking wet, exhausted, smelling like skunk, seeing dollar signs floating out the window for a new freaking roof, our enthusiasm for the four-day weekend had waned.

So, yeah. How was YOUR 4th?

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