We always said Gorm was a country dog, but deep down I always wondered. He has the big floppy ears, the overactive tail, the big smile when he runs, the huge paws for running over snow or through a pond. But sometimes, en repose, he would have a faraway, almost aristocratic look -- the Doberman in him heard ice in a tumbler of whisky, or perhaps his Shepherd blood caught a German accent, long forgotten.
The voice we use for Gorm is unmistakably Gormy -- eager, silly and not very smart. Everything is amazing to Gorm, when we talk for him. "A walk? REALLY? A piece of paper? REALLY? Grass? REALLY? Wind? REALLY?" and so on. But again, I sometimes had the feeling that inside, he was feeling sorry for his high-bred self because he got stuck with such classless, ill-suited owners, or else he was pondering intergalactic physics and proving the Theory of Relativity before eating part of a rotting deer carcass and barfing it up, just for fun.
Well, chalk another one up for "REALLY?" Gorm got a skunk today. Or rather, a skunk got him.
At first, when he came inside, my nose didn't say "skunk." My nose said "OH MY GOD WHO THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO COOK WILD ONIONS AND PIECES OF TIRES IN RANCID BEAR FAT IN MY BEDROOM?" It was that bad. But then I put my face close to his wriggling, happy body, and yup, it all became painfully clear.
I've scrubbed him down with hydrogen peroxide and baking soda and soap, but he still stinks. Tomato juice is a myth; any other suggestions?