A skunky summer it has been. Skunks everywhere. Night and day. Seriously.
I’ve been living with these pesky omnivores and their piercing odor for weeks. In fact, as I sit at the keyboard, the stench wafts from my fingers and red golf shirt, both victims of an otherwise uneventful walk with the dogs Tuesday night; out by the brook, after work, midnight approaching, soggy. Skunks seem to like rainy weather for some reason, perhaps the fresh green growth it stimulates, and so do Springer Spaniels, because scent is enhanced in still, damp air and Springers are all nose. Anyway, the stink on my fingers, washed many wasted times with detergent, came from the Tri-Tronics collars my animals wear. The shirt stench came from the box-stall scent-bomb Bessie slept in. The fresh dose of skunk juice on her head and neck filled the enclosed, muggy space, permeating my cotton shirt and probably my People’s Pint cap in a saturating second. When I returned to the scene Wednesday morning, a powerful smell remained, not eye-watering, but strong. So here I sit, alone, sporting skunk scent and bothering no one. I won’t drag it to work with me. Promise.
It all happened so fast on my nightly routine; went to the kennel, let Lily and Bessie out, and Bess sprinted to the alcove between barn and woodshed, then directly under the barn and into the cavernous cellar, interesting nooks and crannies everywhere. By the time I whistled her back — phew! — another direct hit to the face, pungent film covering her
green, plastic collar … second time this summer, Lily once. Bessie knew that skunk was there, trust me. It must have been tormenting her, kenneled in the back yard. And, oh, how she sprinted to get it before returning to roll and scrape her way across the wet
lawn, trying unsuccessfully to rid her face, head and neck of the spicy scent. It’s still there, although it doesn’t seem to bother her much. As for me, well, I could do without it but can live with it as well. Country living. She’ll carry it around for days. Then
it’ll disappear until the next dustup, a near certainty given what I’ve seen so far.
The fact is that my kenneled dogs have been watching backyard skunks for weeks now. The little critters seem to love it under my barn, in it or in the woodshed. I long ago moved my cat food to keep the varmints away. Come to think of it, wasn’t I just writ
ing about this issue last year at this time, after Bessie discovered her first white-striped puty cat with that hot, smelly wallop? Yeah, it was last year at this time.
I remember it well. That was when old Robert Remillard from Northfield called at 8 a.m., maybe earlier, with personal advice about washing away the spray of what he called “wood pussy,” because skunks are so similar to and get along so well with domestic
cats. Being a lover of the vernacular tongue, I enjoyed his description, one I had never before heard and will not forget. I still tease his grandson at work from time to time, calling him “Ole Wood Pussy.” He takes it in stride, just grins and keeps walking.
But back to that brief, sleepy-eyed, morning chat with Mr. Remillard, I remember how it transported me back to the ’60s and another “rural remedy” for skunk problems, this one from an old Hawley character. I only remember him only as Peewee. He had sold
a small, brookside, hardscrabble farmhouse off the road behind Berkshire East — then Thunder Mountain — to my Uncle Ralph. We were getting ready for winter, stacking wood in the shed off the kitchen, and Peewee was helping. Maybe he even
delivered the wood. I can’t rememeber. Those ’60s were tough on the memory, if you know what I mean, and I wasn’t spared … thank heavens.
When my uncle told Peewee skunks had been raiding the trash around the house and woodshed, the old-timer smiled like he expected it. He pointed to an old ax or maul handle leaning in the corner; said that’s why he left it handy, for skunks; hedgehogs, too; both easy targets. He walked over to the worn hickory weapon and picked it up like he owned it, then demon strated his homespun technique on a hemlock chopping block. The trick was to get the skunk comfort able in your presence, feed it if you had to, preferably
sardines, which smell strong and draw it. Then, as it eats, you’d just raise the long, narrow handle slowly and, with a flick of your wrist, plunk it down with a heavy thud, like a hammer, right between the eyes; knocks it dead as a doornail, never knows what hit it and doesn’t spray, either. But you had to know what you were doing. He impressed that upon us.
I must admit I’ve never tried it myself, and doubt my uncle ever did. In fact, I sometimes wonder if old Peewee ever did it, himself, the rascal. But I suspect he did. Talk about old school, that was Peewee. I wonder how many are left? Probably none. He was a
dying breed then, a country bumpkin with cheap, practical solutions to everyday issues. And now that his type has vanished, varmints are everywhere, even places where they’ve become quite a nuisance.
As for me, well, I guess I’ll now just sit back and brace for PETA letters to flood the paper with complaints about the audacity of an outdoor writer promoting cruelty to animals in black and white. Irresponsible, they will call it; me, of all people.
But when you think of it, wasn’t it better in Peewee’s day, not that long ago?
To me, it was … in more ways than I can print.