EC Blog: Owning Horses Can Stink by Tara Venable

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By Tara Venable

This is a true story, and I would like to formally apologize in advance for making you read it…

Sunday was one of those perfect days. Sunny. 70 degrees. The kind of weather where you think, Ah yes, today I shall be productive and feel good about it. Naturally, I decided it was the perfect time to do some spring cleaning in my horse trailer.

I stepped into the living quarters feeling proud of myself… and was immediately assaulted by the most aggressive smell imaginable. A smell that reached out, grabbed me by the nostrils, and slapped me.

At first I thought, Hmm. That’s not great. Maybe propane?

So I checked. Propane was off. I lingered for another minute, making poor life choices, and realized: No. This is not a propane smell. This is a “something died in here and has regrets” smell.

As I surveyed the scene like a very confused crime scene investigator, I noticed the AC air filters had been popped off and chewed through. The blind cords had been chewed through, and several screens on the windows and doors were destroyed.

So my working theory became: some rodent-sized criminal broke in through the AC, partied like it was Woodstock: Trailer Edition, and then became trapped inside.

Honestly, as mad as I was, the damage appeared to be limited to screens and blinds. No upholstery destruction. No electrical fires. I thought, Okay. I can handle this.

I did a quick search for a body but came up empty. What I did notice was that the smell was strongest around my bed. So, I stripped the sheets and blankets, took them outside, and gave them a few vigorous shakes and brought them into the house to see if they were salvageable.

I washed them.

The smell stayed.

I washed them again.

The smell got worse.

I washed them a third time.

At this point the odor had evolved into something biblical.

Defeated, I pulled the blankets from the washer, carried them outside, and prepared to toss them directly into the trash where they belonged.

Then I looked back into the washing machine.

That’s when I screamed — loudly, dramatically, and from the depths of my soul.

There was a dead squirrel lying in the bottom of the washer.

Friends.

I had washed my blankets with a squirrel corpse.

Three times.

I don’t know how the squirrel got into my trailer, I don’t know how it ended up inside my bedding. And I certainly don’t know how I managed to launder a dead squirrel multiple times without noticing.

So, RIP to my sheets and blankets.

RIP to whatever part of my brain used to store pleasant smells.

Because that scent? That scent will live with me forever.

On the bright side, though — my washing machine is probably haunted now, so that’s fun.