Last night, I started reading a new book (“The Spellshop” by Sarah Beth Durst, if you’re curious). I was reclining in my favorite chair in our library and beside me was a stack of books and a hot cup of tea. I was wrapped in a light, burgundy blanket. One black cat, Pepper, was curled up on top of the blanket on my calves. Another black cat, Treacle, was snuggled under the blanket on my lap. The other kitties were sleeping on warming mats, except Chai, who was staring out the open window.

It was 3 a.m. and the house was blissfully quiet.

The book, a hardcover that features the most delightful lilac-colored fore-edge, begins with a librarian and her assistant fleeing for their lives. A revolution had reached the library where they lived and worked, and the rebels had just set the building on fire (eek!). The heroine and her sidekick were in the process of escaping by boat with a mere five crates of rescued books and scrolls when…

I was violently pulled out of the story and attacked by the most dreadful odor. Anyone with a nose would instantly recognize the scent as eau de skunk. Apparently, one was walking past the library window, spotted Chai and let ‘er rip.

For those who don’t know, I have one superpower: a strong sense of smell. I can smell faint whiffs of smoke from miles away. I can time the doneness of bread baking in the oven by its scent. I can smell individual spices in cakes and flavors in teas. But when a strong scent, such as skunk, hits me, it is overwhelmingly awful.

Now, since I no longer have a dog who can be “skunked” — and yes, I’ve had the misfortune of that experience — skunks generally don’t bother me. In fact, I appreciate skunks. Like me, they’re mostly nocturnal and have weak eyesight. They’re black and white, two of my favorite colors. They only get their dander up when they’re bothered; otherwise, they’re fairly mild-tempered. And, they’re useful in the garden because they feed on pests and control the insect population.

But the smell…bloody fuckin’ hell. It filled the room and stuck to the inside of my nose. When I pinched my nose and tried to breathe out of my mouth, the oily stench coated my tongue. My eyes watered from the terribleness of it and my mind filled with one word: FLEE.

Which is exactly what I did. I kicked the kitties off my lap (though they weren’t taken off-guard because they, too, had already been awoken by the smell). I leaped from the chair and slammed the window shut. While holding my breath, I grabbed the teacup and ran to the far side of the house. Wisely, the kitties joined me.

I wish the skunk no harm. Honest. But, please oh please, let the wee beastie find somewhere else to den for winter.