Sniffing the limits of a date’s patience

My dog, Auggie, recently got sprayed by a skunk for the 15th time. He is going for a personal best.

I don’t remember the first time Auggie, a Newfoundland, was skunked. I do remember that once he was skunked twice in a week. Hard to forget that.

I think that for many years he mistook skunks for my cat, Bear, whom Auggie likes to harass. Bear is a large fluffy black cat. An 18-pounder. In the dark, I would think a skunk could easily be mistaken for Bear. Same size and shape. Auggie just misses the significance of the white stripes.

Bear has even been mistaken for a skunk by a skunk. Washing a cat in tomato juice is also a memorable experience.

I think Auggie has learned now that Bear is unlikely to be rooting about in the neighbor’s yard down the street at night. The current problem is now one of quantity. Our new neighborhood seems to be some sort of skunk thoroughfare. A skunk Underground Railroad, with skunks moving from south to north or north to south. Skunks searching for freedom and snails. I see them almost every night while walking Auggie. It makes them hard to avoid.

I have developed a skunk reflex with the leash. When Auggie stiffens at the end of it and seems a little too interested in something under a bush, I yank the leash back like Indiana Jones cracking his whip. Auggie, a 90-pound dog with a neck like a bull, moves back about a foot. Often a fat skunk then bounces away like Pepe Le Pew, fluffing his tail out in annoyance but not bothering to do the deadly little headstand.

The trouble came last week when I was walking Auggie with a date who does not have the skunk reflex and who was holding the leash. When I saw Auggie point his nose into a neighbor’s weedy succulent patch, I froze before giving out a little garbled shriek. During that frozen moment, the foul deed was done.

Auggie was shot right between the eyes. We ran him back to my frontyard and rinsed his face off with the hose. Then I rushed inside to search for tomato products. Never one to learn from experience (Auggie and I are alike that way), I had no tomato juice on hand. No tomato paste, either. Or fancy Italian tomatoes with basil, or Clamato (all of which I’ve used on Auggie in the past). All I had was ketchup. It was 1 a.m. and the market was closed.

I took the bottle outside, showed it to my date and said, “What do you think?”

“I guess....” he said. “OK,” I said, handing it to him. (This is a good test of male chivalry.)

He squirted ketchup on patient Auggie’s head. Although the skunk spray mostly hit his face, it also coated his entire body in a thin, noxious film.

Date squirted more ketchup on Auggie’s body. Auggie shook and we were sprayed with the red stuff, looking like extras in a slasher movie.

I retreated into the house and came back with some banana-scented shampoo. “We” (me holding the hose, date doing the dirty work) rinsed Auggie off and then lathered him up. “We” rinsed the shampoo off, Auggie shook again, and we were all dripping and smelling of skunk, ketchup and banana. How romantic!

I thoroughly dried Auggie off with an old towel and let him in the house. He immediately ran to my most expensive Oriental rug, which he never seemed to notice before, and rolled all over it. Then he trotted into my bedroom and was about to jump on the bed when I escorted him into the backyard.

“Uh, I’m gonna be going now,” date said.

I couldn’t blame him. Dinner, movie and a dog wash do not a perfect date make. And Eau de Skunque is not the sexiest perfume. Still, the fact that he was willing to get his hands dirty -- and then some -- seemed a good sign.

I considered what to do next. Auggie is a big baby and there was no way he was going to spend the night alone in the backyard. I’m a big baby about my household goods and there was no way I was going to let him back inside. I sat down on the back step and we faced off, womano y dogmano.

I fixed him with a stern gaze. He lowered his head and lifted his big brown puppy eyes. Oh lord. “OK, but not on the bed,” I said. You’d have thought I’d just told him he had to sleep in a tiny metal crate. He slowly walked to the towel I put on the floor next to the bed and sat down. He put one paw up on the bed. “No,” I said. Just then Bear walked in, took one whiff, flicked his tail and left.

I turned out the light. Auggie jumped on the bed and snuggled up against me.

Love stinks.

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Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha.bonar

@latimes.com.