Reason #17: I’m a cold-blooded killer. Part Two.
So, I've reached that point in life, as everyone does, where I find myself asking the question: "What's the correct dosage of Benadryl for a skunk?"
It's a story as old as man. Man finds a rat living in his 1998 Toyota Corolla. Man's wife doesn't want to kill rat. Man buys too big a trap. Man catches skunk instead. Rat lives on, happily munching on 1998 Toyota Corolla's electrical system.
A victim of this all-too-cliche story, the other day I found myself devising a plan for releasing a skunk from a trap that requires me to stand 6 inches away to open it. I'd already read online about how the local authorities wish for me to handle this situation. (Hint: It involves a towel, some dirt and a chunk of dry ice. Seriously.) And, while I'm definitely ready for this problem to be gone, I'm not quite ready to off a skunk. So, my wife and I are contemplating how to put a skunk to sleep. Since Benadryl works for me, it's gotta work for a skunk, right?
We decide on a dosage (half a pill, chopped into a fine powder) and a delivery method. Two, actually. It was peanut butter that got us into this mess (the bait in the original trap), so it should be peanut butter to get us out. We mixed the Benadryl in PB and then, as a back-up plan (because, clearly, we're the types to think everything through) we baked more Benadryl into ground turkey. Skunks love meatballs, right? I mean, they're people, too.
We tossed the PB&M bait to the cage, then waited.
Three hours later, the Benadryl-bait-balls sat uneaten. It was here that my murderous thoughts returned. There are worse ways to die than dry-iced induced fumigation, I reasoned. Sure, he might be a bit chilly, but there's a definite cool factor to making your exit in the same way rock stars make their entrances.
Alas, my wife wasn't wavering. And, if I were to convince her otherwise, surely my ticket to hell would be punched with conviction. I mean, it's one thing to be evil yourself -- but, to convince others to join you on the dark side? That's gotta be a fast pass to fire.
So, we suited up in our Personal Protection Units (PPU's we called them -- emphasis on the PU).
Where some saw trash bags with holes cut out for our head and limbs, we saw a fail-proof shield from the surely-imminent spray. Our Hefty-branded anti-stink suits weren't the most breathable outer layer, but that was kind of the point. Nothing out, and more importantly, nothing in. Another hour and 90 degrees later, we'd lost a collective 45 pounds, but not the skunk. Turns out, even a trash bag-based protective layer is no substitute for pure courage.
Long story shorter, we sweet talked our way close enough to place a towel over his cage (Yes, you CAN sweet talk a skunk), pulled the cage from under the car into the center of the driveway and devised a plan for the final move: the releasing of the hatch. Flawlessly execute our 17-step plan, and nobody gets sprayed.
Now, when I write this up as a sitcom episode (and believe me, I will), the ending will be different. It'll end with the skunk toddling merrily down our drive, just as our actual story did. But, on TV, someone's getting sprayed. Which, thankfully, we avoided.
Which also means, maybe -- for today anyway -- I might not actually be going to hell.
Tomorrow? Who knows. That rat's still in there.