My Great Pyrenees are livestock guardians, which means a few things. First, they live full-time with the goats and chickens. Second, they have free run of the fenced pastures and woods where the goats graze. And third, they are never clean.
So when Remi got skunked last week, she did what any self-respecting working dog would do—rolled in the grass and dirt like her life depended on it, trying desperately to erase the stench. I followed up with a generous application of skunk deodorizer, which helped tone down the eau de roadkill. But her thick undercoat was still full of grime, leaves, twigs, and possibly a few forgotten snacks.
At that point, I did something I rarely do: I called in reinforcements. Namely, a professional groomer with better tools and more patience than me.
Sixty dollars later... and I swear, you need sunglasses to look at her. Remi positively gleams. You forget under all that muck and hard-working dog-ness there’s actually a stunning animal underneath. She looks like she was dry-cleaned by angels. A clean Great Pyrenees is something to behold—majestic, regal, and just waiting to ruin it.
Of course, she’s not happy about it. She smells like shampoo now. Artificial cleanliness is not the LGD way.
So I’m just waiting to see what she chooses to roll in next to restore her natural, earthy aroma. Fresh manure? Rotten log? Whatever it is, she’s probably eyeing it up right now with a plan. And it probably smells better than skunk. Then again, most anything smells better than skunk.
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| "Mom says I smell good but I've got to find a manure pile to roll in so I can get rid of the shampoo smell." |
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| "I STINK!" |
In the wee hours of this morning—because of course it’s never at a decent hour—I was jolted awake by the unmistakable scent of Pepe Le Pew wafting through the windows. Apparently, some striped opportunist decided our broiler chickens were worth braving two barking dogs and the wrath of a sleep-deprived farm lady.
The night’s tally: 2 dogs skunked (1 Great Pyrenees, 1 English Shepherd), 0 chickens harmed, and 1 entire yard now smelling like a biohazard zone
Judging by the odor level (somewhere between “burnt tires” and “toxic waste spill”), the standoff took place right outside my back door. Remi, the Pyr, got the worst of it—pretty sure she took a direct hit to the chest. The English Shepherd rolled in some of the aftermath like it was high-end cologne.
Naturally, I couldn’t find my giant bottle of Nature’s Miracle Skunk Deodorizer. You know, the one I’ve had for years just waiting for a moment like this. Gone. Vanished. Probably tossed during one of my “I should declutter” moods. Rookie mistake.
I had to wait for the feed store to open, and by then my morning clients had arrived. Nothing says “professional” like smelling faintly of skunk while trying to pretend everything is fine.
While I waited, I quarantined both dogs in a fenced area, hoping to contain the smell. “Hoping” being the operative word here. I managed to get the English Shepherd mostly de-skunked, though I still wouldn’t recommend cuddling him. But Remi? She may need an exorcism. I’m currently waiting for a call back from the dog groomer and praying she has a cancellation, a hazmat suit, and maybe a sense of humor.
Moral of the story? If you own livestock, always keep two things on hand: skunk shampoo and a sense of humor. And maybe a clothespin for your nose. Skunks are the only predator bold enough to pick a fight with a 100-lb livestock guardian and win by weaponized B.O.
In celebration of our birthdays—hers last month, mine this week—my 17-year-old granddaughter and I did something wildly indulgent. Something radical. Something that made us feel like queens for a whole hour.
We got pedicures.
Now, this might not seem like a big deal to the average person, but when you spend your days knee-deep in hay, chasing goats who think fences are a suggestion, and wondering why the chickens are giving you the side-eye, a pedicure is basically a spa day on par with a five-star resort.
We soaked. We scrubbed. We picked out polish colors like we were choosing wallpaper for a royal castle. I went with a bright ruby. She went with a beautiful soft coral. I think mine says “refined elegance.” Hers says “I will absolutely win this argument, thank you.”
For sixty glorious minutes, we were pampered like ladies who have afternoon tea. The massage chair kneaded muscles I forgot I had. And when it was all said and done, we walked out with soft heels, shiny toes, and a renewed appreciation for people who willingly touch other people’s feet for a living. Saints, every last one of them.
Then I came home and did what any sensible farm woman would do with her freshly buffed and polished piggies.
I shoved them directly into a pair of muck boots. Because nothing says “Happy Birthday, tootsies!” like stepping into a questionable puddle of something warm, hoping it’s water. Boots protect the glorious feet.
The goats didn’t see. The chickens wouldn't have cared. The horse might’ve glanced, but only because I was late with his hay. But I knew. I knew there were fabulous feet under those boots.
And that, my friends, is the duality of womanhood: glitter toes and goat poop.
Happy Birthday, Toes. You deserved this.
