Skunk Self-Care--and That Smell!

One of the signs that an animal is feeling well is self-care. That's funny. One of the signs that a person is feeling well is self-care.  I admit to falling off a bit in self-care of late. My hair is driving me nuts, going full-on Bozo with giant sidewings, as I've missed two cuts with my beloved and gifted stylist Angie. I bought barrettes, then headbands. Neither accoutrement has been used on my head for 23 years at least. And neither works on my wild in-between hair, to keep it out of my eyes. Finally, in desperation, I took some tiny butterfly hairclips that I use to secure orchid blooming stems to their stakes. My head is studded with them, each one holding back an obstreperous hank of hair, and I look like Pebbles Bedrock, but it works and I can forget about my hair and get on with my work.  I tell myself it's youthful and perhaps kind of cute, but it's really just pathetic. Oh well. Nobody but my kids sees it, and at least I have enough hair to annoy me. Be thankful for what you have.

          

You may watch this video and think that SugarBean has fleas. Far from it. This is simply grooming, all the scratching and chewing and licking. What a privilege, to kneel on a terrace directly over a wild skunk, and see how he conducts his toilette. What a thrill, to be trusted, and to trust him. This stink bomb he carries colors every interaction. There's always that chance that something could scare him and I could be drenched. But the longer we know each other, the more distant that likelihood is.

In my years as a dog owner, I've had to deskunk a dog five times. Five times too many. It's one of my least favorite chores. I did it twice for Chet in 12 years, and three times for Curtis in the first eight months I had him! There are lots of folks who are just signing onto SugarBean's story via various Web channels, and it seems that some have missed the two previous posts that explain how it is that my hunting dog Curtis isn't attacking this little black and white yard fixture. Here's the first one: Fun With Skunks and Dogs  and here's the second one: About That Skunk.  Thanks to having SugarBean around, I've had the opportunity to teach Curtis to leave him alone, and that is a beautiful thing. I DID find Curtis cleaning up SugarBean's dinner one day, then STICKING HIS HEAD IN THE MAILBOX where the skunk was sleeping, so I wouldn't say we are exactly home free, but both skunk and dog are champs, and I have to trust the process and the intelligence of both animals. My devotion to one injured skunk has been tested and found true.

While deskunking Curtis, I have given a lot of thought to the absolutely jaw-dropping power of skunkstink, N-butyl mercaptan. As much as I've smelled it, it still amazes me that one animal, smaller than your average housecat, can pack a couple little sacs full of oil that, when deployed, you can smell for literally MILES. And you can't smell it until he lets it loose. How on earth does he confine that stench with nothing more than flesh and a sphincter? It all amazes me and makes me wonder. I found this bizarre little video on the Net that shows the two "nozzles" that pop out on either side of a skunk's anus that fire and even direct the spray! I hope never to be that close! And having been sprayed myself twice (never a direct hit, such as Curtis takes, but damn close), I will say that skunk scent, point blank, is the only smell that actually terrifies me. It's such a primal response.

Yesterday, the kids thought it would be funny to take Curtis' toy skunk, Snoutnose**, and place it in the bluebell patch, where I would see it out of the corner of my eye as I chugged out to fill the bird feeders. I did and...zero at the bone! Stopped in my tracks! If I ever had doubt that the black and white pelage of a skunk is a primal fear releaser, it is gone now. And even after going on two months of fraternizing with sweet lil' SB, I still get that chill when I first spot him on his afternoon peregrination. Once sprayed, twice shy. I'm fascinated by this visceral response to seeing him that persists even though my conscious mind knows he's "safe." And I suspect that the frisson of knowing that I could get sprayed adds to my enjoyment of being his friend. It has been pointed out to me that I like to live dangerously.

**a gift from my sweet friend Marianne!

Because one can never have too much of watching a skunk roll around on the ground, here's another sweet video from the same session on April 2. These were made with my iPhone from a ridiculously close range. Lookit that little face! And those nails. Just everything. The snorf. The belly, now much rounder than it was. The underlying white hairs in his tail. The way he norbles on his fur. Oooh this little animal, he's soo sweet.

        

With love from the edge,

JZ

More Skunk Lore

Obsessing about a badly injured skunk has been sort of a steam escape valve for me, and Lord knows we all need those. I mean, it's business as usual for me to be hyperfocused on and fussing over some badly compromised wild thing, but this hurt skunk has really stretched the limits of my ingenuity and forced me to be patient and wait for slow improvement. I like to fix things. I like to fix people and animals, if I can. I use nature, positivity, time and good food to do my witchery, sometimes a little medicine. But this skunk cannot be fixed neatly or quickly. That's not to say he can't be fixed at all.

 SugarBean showed up March 7 and had been more and more dependent on my food subsidy as the weeks went on. There were a few days near the end of March when it actually hurt to watch him crippling around the yard. One beautiful warm day he sort of lay around on the grass in broad daylight, and when he wanted to get up he had to use his head to roll over on his side and kind of pry himself up. That was really hard to watch. That was when I got kind of frantic about him and started trying to dream up ways to catch him in a carrier and transport him to the Ohio Wildlife Center in Columbus. I was able to get him in a cat carrier, where he slept overnight in a rainshower, dry and protected. So OK. I could easily catch him... but for what? Once I found out that Ohio Wildlife Center likely would not try to operate on him, I had to fish or cut bait. I thought of calling a couple of people who might be willing to come shoot him for me, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. If he still showed interest in food; if there was even the whisper of a chance that this poor little wreck could turn out to be a viable skunk, I owed it to SugarBean to keep trying. He was certainly trying!

So I adopted the role of nurse/caregiver, and kept the nutritious food coming. I was pretty much winging it, trying to keep SugarBean well supplied with protein and calcium. So far, soft-boiled eggs, cottage cheese, chopped spinach, chopped pear, strawberries, fresh corn off the cob, mandarin orange,  sunflower hearts, sliced almonds, and cooked chicken have all been hits. Kitten chow and dog kibble are both appreciated. I'm not sure there's much you could offer a skunk that it would refuse. I've managed to feed that little skunk most every day for almost two months. I didn't mind. It was a privilege, and I have thoroughly enjoyed interacting with him.

Phoebe came around the corner of the house, looking for me, and found this scene. She'd been calling for me, but I didn't answer, for obvious reasons. I heard her breathe, "Oh my GOD" in a sort of "This would be going on whether I was here to witness it or not" voice. I quietly handed her my phone and she grabbed a couple of shots of her Crazy Skunk Lady mom, living dangerously as usual. 

I was a lot closer to him than I wanted to be. I had just set the dish down when the skunk ambled up, and I didn't have time to back off! At that point it seemed I'd do more harm by trying to waddle backward, and probably tip over like a brown marmorated stinkbug, lying there waving my legs, than just by staying in place until he was done eating. Good thing my knees still work pretty well. Ha ha! That was an epic squat. 

Taken with my iPhone. I was right on top of him!  And that's how Phoebe found us. I love the possessive little paws, placed right in the food. As if, once I'd given him the meal, I was going to rescind it? You never know...

Obviously, a telephoto lens is to be preferred for both parties' comfort and safety. 

Mmm, chicken.

Pignosin' his kibble. I just love the snowy Afro.

I took to setting his food and water just outside his little mailbox home so he wouldn't have to use that poor busted leg so much. 

He took to that mailbox like a duck to water, and he spent the better part of two weeks sleeping almost around the clock in its toasty soft confines, coming out only to eat and poop. I love to creep up, peek in there and see ebony fur. 

Each day, he'd emerge to poop. I cleaned up his little noodly piles with a shovel. But not while this gorgeous little moth, a Grapevine Epimenus, was doting on them! Now you know what skunk poop looks like. I'll confess I didn't, before this. But whoa. 

Come to find out, I've already used the tag "skunk scat" on this blog, so I'm gonna have to go see what I said about it!

Here is a video of SugarBean motivating toward his carrier on March 30, before the mailbox palace was in place. At this point I still thought it was a female, so pardon the narration. This was as well as I had seen him move since he first appeared, and hope sprang in my heart that he might eventually be OK after all. His locomotion is certainly not great, but it's a whole lot better than it was. I'm so amused at the thought that a wild skunk would willingly go into a cat carrier and spend time in there. Just one of the many lessons this little mustelid has to teach me.

           

 SugarBean has sure taught me a lot about skunks, about trust, about patience and love.  And about dog training! My hope is that, having come to know this one virtual skunk, some readers might not be so quick to freak out, call pest control,  or at the very least, run around shouting and waving their arms. It's just a small, calm, sweet, black and white animal, who happens to be packing a bomb. Your job is to stay cool so he doesn't have to deploy it.

SugarBean's New Home

Mid "stride:" SugarBean has to hop to get that bad right hind leg forward.

 It's really hard for a born empath who is also a wildlife rehabilitator to watch a very small skunk sort of drag-hopping around with one hind leg that's of no use. I want to do something, anything to help. And it kills me that, if SugarBean were an opossum or woodchuck, I'd have dragged her off to a veterinarian a month and a half ago. If only she weren't fully loaded with such a deadly weapon!

So when she spent the night in that cat carrier with its straw bedding and doormat roof,  I knew I had to do better by her. I made a sleeping box with a skunk-sized entry hole, and stuffed it with sweet dry meadow grass that I gather and use to replace my bluebird nests in blowfly season. This is the box my book, The Bluebird Effect, comes packed in. Space for 12 copies is just about right for a small skunk.

 

I then put the box in a great old steel mailbox that I've had since I lived in Connecticut. They don't make mailboxes like this any more. Its twin is currently in service at the end of our driveway. Somebody tried real hard to rip that one off its post, and they couldn't. All they did was bend the tab. That's my kind of mailbox. I kept this one because you can't get good heavy steel mailboxes any more. And maybe I knew that somewhere 30 years hence, I might need to make a skunk palace.

On March 31, I removed the cat carrier while SugarBean was out, and put this weatherproof setup in its place. The first one to check it out was a tufted titmouse, who thought it might have been put up for her, decided it was too low to the ground, and settled for stealing some grass from SugarBean's nest. You can see here there in the doorway.

 

I put a nice dish of food in the sleeping box. Around 5 pm, SugarBean came trundling up, following her nose.

She climbed up on the porch as if skunks always go into mailboxes.

 She checked out the surrounding area.

Cast me a look which I decided to interpret as thankful.

Went inside to have dinner and check out the mattress.

My heart almost burst when she scuffled around in there, arranging the grass, and stayed, curled up, for a nap. The nights were still in the 40's and it made my heart sing to know that, even if she was broken, she was warm and as comfortable as possible. I don't know where she'd been sleeping, but I can't imagine she could get down into a burrow thus compromised, so she may just have tucked herself into the trumpetvine tangle to sleep. Poor thing!

I can't tell you what a treat it has been to really get to know a skunk. When we first moved here in the early 1990's, there was a beautiful skunk who came around on some summer evenings. It was all white down its head, back and tail, and, unlike SugarBean, it had very strong BO, so I could literally smell when it was around. I gave it the highly imaginative name of Stinky. Whatever works.  I had no dog to worry about, so I started accidentally leaving the odd bit of chicken, pork or what-have-you along the skunk's yard route. It wasn't long before I could walk up, talking softly, and lay a treat before Stinky's nose. Skunks are trusting animals, and they catch on quickly that you mean no harm. They catch onto it even more quickly when you're a good cook. Stinky was around for a few weeks, and then ambled on, as skunks do.

But my relationship with SugarBean is at a whole 'nother level. I know it's not a good idea to feed wild mammals, and I would never even consider leaving large bowls of kibble out at night, like I've seen people do for packs upon packs of raccoons, opossums and skunks. I have no desire to artificially boost the concentration of predators in my surroundings. But I did very much enjoy my brief relationship with Stinky.

Providing good food, clean water, and excellent housing for this car-crushed waif seems like the least I can do, given her pitiful condition.  I doubt SugarBean would be alive now but for this intervention, and her life is precious to us. I'm so grateful to this skunk for schooling Curtis in some sorely needed etiquette, for keeping her cool with a hot-headed cur around. It is a definite risk to have a wild and fully loaded skunk in one's yard, but it's worked out amazingly well, given the odds.

Watching her make herself at home in the fancy new digs was such a thrill. I couldn't stop smiling. A while later I saw movement out there and came out to see what was going on. SugarBean was on her porch again, busy grooming her fur. 

 And what to my wondering eyes did appear

But a miniature...Huh?

My apologies, SugarBean. I have been using the wrong pronoun all along. I took you for a girl, being so small and delicate. You must just be a yearling.

And you've now seen a skunk's junk, and no surprise! Cute eyes, ears, nose, toes...even the junk's cute, too.  We'll keep the name, because you're no less sweet for being a boy.

About That Skunk...

While all this is going on with pets inside the house, there's a pet who roams outside, too. Not gonna lie. Going from a Boston terrier to a mountain cur has been a big adjustment. Chet's reason for living was to keep me company. I remember once when he treed a raccoon deep in our woods. He stood up against the tree, barked, got very excited. I watched awhile, then said, "OK, Chet, let's leave him in peace. I'm headed home." That little dog took a last look at the coon and trotted over to me, and that was the end of that. Chet knew what his job was, and he put his whole heart into it. He followed me to the washing machine, to the bathroom; he'd butt the door open with his little melon head when I was showering (never failed to get a peal of laughter from me as the cold air would rush in). And until he lost his hearing at the end, he never even needed a collar on our runs on the busy road, because he listened to every word I said.

I can't say that about Curtis, but he's listening much better than he was a year ago. I don't love him any less for his wandering spirit. My love for him is different, because our relationship is different. He's more like a friend than the everything that Chet strove to be, that I needed him to be. Curtis is just the dog I need at this stage of my life. He's taught me to loosen my grip and let go.

I am usually looking at the hind end of this dog. Not exactly a heeler.

Just like Chet, Curtis knows what his job is. He was bred to hunt. He's a fabulous companion, as you've seen, but his first love and calling is the hunt. So when Curtis trees a coon, he stands up against the tree, bites some bark off it, bays a little, and, if he's not a half mile away through the woods, I watch for awhile. And then I say, "I'll see you at home, Curtis. I'm headed back."  And there we part ways, because Curtis is not a Boston terrier. He is a Treeing Tennessee Brindle. I'll see him again in oh, maybe two or three hours, when he's good and ready to come home. He'll be riddled  with thorns, ear tips bleeding from their tears, tongue hanging down to his brisket, hungry and exhausted and oh, so happy. Overdoing it is his way. He is doing his job, as he feels it in his very cells. 

Work mode: sniffing scent trails old and new. 

So when a badly injured skunk showed up in the yard, Houston, we had a problem. As explained before, he'd gotten himself odiferized three times in only eight months since he'd joined our family. I had concluded that Curtis was one of those dogs who would never stop trying to catch a skunk.

And yet, in that one magic moment explained a few posts back (Fun With Skunks and Dogs), Curtis put it all together. Even as he was charging for the attack, he registered my anguished plea for him to leave SugarBean alone. And alone he has left that skunk, despite myriad opportunities to ruin all our lives since. SugarBean has become a bit of a fixture in the yard. Can't imagine why...

About ten days ago, I heard Curtis ranging about in the woods to the north, his bells jingling. Without even thinking, I called to him to come home. The shortest path was through the tunnels in a trumpetvine tangle that sprawls behind the compost pit. It's a highway for Curtis, for the opossums, raccoons, rabbits...and for SugarBean. Too late, I saw SugarBean, crouched in a vine tunnel. I heard Curtis coming straight toward the skunk. I couldn't do a thing. You can't stop a dog from coming to you once you've called. You can't tell him, "No, I've changed my mind, don't come home." I heard twigs crackling as Curtis drew closer. Frantically, I sent him mind pictures of backing away. And then he caught the scent and stopped. Backed up. Went back the way he'd come, and allll the way around the garage. I ran to meet him as he emerged from the woods a good 300' from where SugarBean was hidden. I threw my arms around his neck. That's when I knew this dog gets it.

I've been very worried about SugarBean. Her right hind leg is nearly useless; she puts it down only lightly and it obviously hurts. I've thought and thought about how to help her. The injury dates to sometime in early March, when I first started seeing her around the yard.

 

The idea from the start has been to support her nutritionally, and hope for healing in the leg/hip. 

Because as sweet and cute as SugarBean looks, she's not a housecat. 

She's not even a feral cat. She's a mustelid, and she packs a ferocious bite as well as a scent bomb that WILL ruin my whole life if it goes off. About a week ago, something perturbed her in the night, and she sprayed, and that scent drifted in Phoebe's open window and permeated the house. It woke everyone up, and kept me up the rest of the night. I spent that time thinking about what it means to have an injured skunk in residence in one's yard.

A friend of mine tried to help, investigating as to whether the Ohio Wildlife Center would admit the skunk if I was able to catch her. She really, really wanted Sugarbean to get medical attention, and made some offers and suggestions that included offering to drive the skunk to Columbus if I could catch her! (That's love!)  Well, I really wanted her to get care, too, but I knew that her injury is too old (more than a month) for the leg to be set, even if one could operate on a skunk and keep it in a clinic, which one simply cannot. Once it wakes up from the anesthesia, the first slamming door would bring a stinkbomb! And the word came back from OWC that, even if SugarBean were somehow caught and brought in, they wouldn't attempt to operate on her leg. So what's the point of catching her?

the first falcate orangetip of spring

But while I was in the flush of being persuaded that maybe something could be done to help this poor hobbling creature, I set out a cat carrier with the door wired open, and decided to feed SugarBean inside it.

She entered without hesitation. It's all about the food with skunks. But then when she was fed, she did the most interesting thing. I had piled dry straw up in the back of the carrier, and SugarBean went on in and curled up in there, and slept for five hours!

 

While she was sleeping, it began to rain, and I was able to put a doormat over top of the carrier to shield her from the rain without any trouble or protest from the skunk. 

That night was cold and wet, and, but for a foray around 10 pm, she slept in there all night. 

Well, how do you like that?

Skunks normally have a low profile, but this one is snakelike. She flows over the ground, very very slowly.

One of the most winsome and endearing little animals I've ever known.

I am forever trying to think of new ways to help her.

Small Skunk, Big Victory

       
It had been ten days since I first saw the skunk, since Curtis first charged it and was stopped in his tracks by the horror in my voice. Each afternoon at 5 sharp, the little animal had trundled into the yard (usually from a different direction each time, telling me she had us on a route) and happily eaten a small bowl of Fromm's kibble. I'd kept Curtis inside at that hour, because who needs to tempt fate? I had no idea if the lesson of that memorable day had taken in his brain. I'm still getting to know him, and I have enormous respect for the power of his prey drive, the instinct bred into him to go for the kill.

The skunk and I had fallen into a routine. She responded to my voice by advancing toward me, not retreating. I could walk right past her and set her bowl down and she'd bumble like a stumbly kitten to the goods.  Charmingly myopic, she followed the scent of the food and seemed unperturbed by my watching and photographing her as she ate.

She was moving better, but she still had to hop with that broken hind leg. She would never win a race. A skunk doesn't have to be fast. All it really has to be is black and white, and armed.

It's funny how fast I can get attached to something like a crippled skunk. All I have to feel is that I'm somehow helping it, and I'm gone, all in. 

To be fair to me, she is absolutely adorable. Not the fanciest, by any means, but the cutest for sure.

After ten days of this, I felt I knew how she'd react, and finally felt comfortable doing another experiment with Curtis. I put his leash on and walked quietly out into the yard while the skunk was about. Watch what happened next!

               

I think you can hear how pleased I am that our dog has finally had a change of heart and mind about skunks. Because his hunting instinct is so powerful, I honestly never thought I'd see the day. That makes the gift of his cooperation all the more wonderful. I have the feeling this lesson will hold, on or off the lead. I think he's put it all together that Ma wants him to stay away from skunks. What a good boy!

As I write, it's March 20, and she's been here a solid two weeks. I hurried to set her kibble out this evening at 5 pm, as always. For the first time, she didn't show up. Aww, heck. Doggone it. Now what? Was she in a burrow somewhere, giving birth to tiny kits, broken leg and all? Had a great horned owl grabbed her? I hadn't smelled a struggle... Had she just changed her route, or found a carcass somewhere to feast on?

With wild friends, this time may be the last you'll ever see them, but each one I come to know, no matter how inconvenient or smelly they may be, is a gift. This little skunk stayed long enough to teach Curtis how to live with his neighbors. She was kind and patient and grateful, and those are good things to have in a friend. Here's hoping we see her again, farther on down the line.

Wait. There's more. 

Update: The compost area was heavily anointed with skunk aroma around 11 Friday night.  And the skunk was back at 3:45 pm on Saturday, March 21, hinting broadly that it was time for her kibble.  Being well-trained, I obliged. 

Sunday, March 22: She spent a couple hours in the compost pit from 3 pm on, sorting through some meat scraps that found their way in. Ignored her kibble. 

 This is her I-don't-want-to-talk-to-you-right-now glare. My kids, who are both in residence with me, eating like kings and sucking down every drop of bandwidth until such time as the world stops ending, are making fun of me as per usual.  Now, because of how obsessed I am with "that crippled skunk." 

Her name is SugarBean.

 That is all from Indigo Hill. 

Fun With Skunks and Dogs

I first saw her March 7, moving slowly, even for a skunk, across the sideyard. It took only seconds for me to realize that something was wrong. She was injured, probably with a broken left hind leg. The instinctive helper in me was instantly and permanently sad. There's really little way that I can think of to help an injured skunk, without getting yourself permeated with its noxious scent for the next few months.

Oh, it was so hard to watch her hobbling along. Try as I might, I couldn't think of a way to capture and hold her to get her into care, without rendering myself unspeakably smelly. I know of someone who recently tried; valiant Deb caught an injured skunk and took it in her car to a rehab facility, but even there, people were utterly amazed that she'd do that. She and her car got good and sprayed for her kindness, too. I love skunks, but even I don't love them enough to be willing to do that.

You can see the unnatural arch of her back that says she's favoring the near hind leg.

I've been continuously living with this stench, both intense and faint,  ever since Curtis Loew came into my life, and I can tell you that it's not something I'd willingly invite by trying to handle a wild skunk. As of his last event in January 2020, he'd been sprayed three times in 11 months. The events were evenly enough spaced that juuust as he was starting to smell like potting soil and sunshine again, he'd go and get himself doused. It has been thoroughly discouraging. How can such a smart dog be so durn dumb about skunks? Is a fondness for playing with mustelids one of the many traits that got him surrendered by his former owners? I would bet so. In all his nearly twelve years, Chet Baker got sprayed twice. The first time was his fault (Ooh! Look at the kitty! Does it want to play?) The second was a complete accident (taking a 10:30 pm mad walk, we both tripped over a skunk in the pitch dark). And after that episode, when Chet saw a skunk, he'd immediately sit down, clear his throat, watch with great interest, and refuse to go any closer. He was not slow. Neither is Curtis; in fact in many ways Curtis is more clever than Chet. But he's also a cur, bred to hunt, and therein lies the problem.

 I heard Curtis one morning in the third week of January 2020, deep in our west woods, giving an angry, commanding bark. I didn't  like the sound of that bark. It sounded like he had something cornered, low; his treed animal bark is higher and more yelpy. And it wasn't too long before he came lolloping up the meadow, long strings of foamy slobber coating his head and chest. He'd stop to roll, then keep running toward home. What the heck did you get into? Oh. OH. OHHHH. Crap!! Not again!!

By this third time that he'd pulled this, I'd figured out how to handle it, and I told him he was NOT coming in the house. No, I left him outside while I prepared a bucket of hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and dishwashing liquid.  Here's the recipe:

• 1 quart of 3% hydrogen peroxide 
• 1/4 cup baking soda
• 1 teaspoon liquid dishwashing soap

 I gloved myself,  leashed him, and made him stand on the sidewalk while I lathered him up, three times in a row. It was absolutely miserable for us both. Only when I got him to where I could stand to be near him did I carry him straight to the downstairs tub for more peroxide rinses and then a real hot bath. I did not allow him inside to jump up on furniture or rub himself on the carpet, all of which he did in the two previous episodes, anointing my house with a stench that lasted weeks. DisGUSting.

Far as I knew, I had a dog who was never going to learn about skunks. I realized that, in Curtis, I had a macho-a-s dog who thought it was worth it to get sprayed, if he could just get the right grip on that funny little animal. The first time, he'd rushed a skunk as the kids walked him out the meadow.  A good spraying ensued.  I had the opportunity to test him on a long lead not long afterward. I spotted a skunk feeding in a distant meadow and walked him obliquely toward it, leash slack, without saying a word. (This was a test.  Everything is an experiment). He spotted it, went on alert, stalked it (not a good sign) then, forgetting he was on lead, bolted toward it. I was only too happy to bring him up with the leash and give him a good scolding. You idiot! Unreformed, clearly, and utterly unrepentant. You want me to hunt, right??

 In our next encounter, he was walking at twilight ON A SHORT LEASH with ME HOLDING IT and Shila right beside us when he dove into a ditch and came up twirling around in a circle with a SKUNK in his JAWS. That time was extra special. There was so much screaming!  Shila and I still laugh our heads off when we talk about it. Spinning! Screaming! Cussing! A real stinky ride home in my car! Which stank for weeks! And in this fourth encounter, he'd cornered one deep in the woods and taken it right in the kisser. NOT LEARNING. Not even CLOSE. Some might call him an idiot. I knew it was something closer to invincibility, stubborn, butt-headed courage. It was worth it to him, for the thrill of the hunt. And this was bad.

And now I had a badly injured skunk right smack in my yard who couldn't go anywhere fast. Great. I could see this was not going to end well. A lot of people would have solved the problem with a bullet in the skunk. I am not like a lot of people. I prefer to lead a more interesting life than that.

Watching the little animal, I decided it was probably a female, since it was the smallest adult skunk I'd seen. I could also tell the injury was recent, and painful. I suspected she had been hit by a car, since both legs on her left side seemed to be affected. I don't think Curtis could have done it, because the last time he was sprayed was back in January, and here it was March 7. And he certainly would have been sprayed for his efforts had he grabbed her and injured her.

Over the next few days, that skunk showed up in the compost area every day at 5 pm. OK, for now the plan was to keep Curtis inside in the late afternoon. It was a plan that could work in the short term, but it was only a matter of time before Curtis would stumble across her. I dreaded that, but all the same I was fascinated by her, and the way she was learning to compensate for her injuries. She seemed to move just a little better with each passing day. I hatched a plan to support her with food until she could get around better. I suspect that most people would think that was dumb. Even I thought it was about 85% dumb. But I couldn't help myself.

 It started innocently enough. She was rooting around in the compost pile, and I went over and picked up a window-killed cardinal that I had laid out for the sharp-shinned hawk who got robbed by a bobcat in my last blogpost. The sharpie had eyed the dead bird but never took me up on the offer. He is a grown male, perfectly capable of catching fresh food. Sharpies are not scavengers, like their phlegmatic buteo cousins. They're finicky hawk royalty. The cardinal had been lying in freezing temperatures for three days, was still good, and I figured the hurt skunk could use the protein. So I crept as close to the compost pit as I dared, lobbed the bird in a high arc and brought it to a perfect landing about 6" from the skunk's head. The skunk jumped comically, looked around, followed her nose, and immediately dug in. She ate the cardinal's head, crunching down its massive beak with impressive power. I cannot imagine swallowing a cardinal's beak, but she did it. (Maybe I'll find that poop!)  Then she picked the bird up and carried it into a trumpetvine tangle to finish her excellent meal.

I don't have photos of all that happened the next time I saw the skunk. It was a couple days later: Monday, March 9, a beautiful warm afternoon, and I had the windows thrown open to air the house out. I was in the studio,  washing the floor, and it suddenly occurred to me that the skunk ought to be in the yard about now. I looked outside and the first thing I saw was Curtis, moseying slowly across the side yard. Ut-oh. He stopped for a pee. I scanned the yard. His head came up, ears pricked, and he went tense. I followed his gaze to the innocent little skunk, bumbling toward the compost pit maybe 100' away.

Like an arrow shot from a crossbow, Curtis launched himself at the animal. And just as quickly, I hollered NO!! NO!!  NONONONONONONO CURTIS NO NONONONONO!!

Because the windows were open, Curtis heard me, picked up on the anguish in my voice. For once, he did not go selectively deaf, as he has so many times when I've tried to turn him off a scent. And that dog stopped in his tracks. Turned. Tucked his tail and groveled up to me (By then, I'd thrown myself out the front door and was headed out to get sprayed, too). The skunk stood her ground. She hadn't even lifted her tail. Curtis was at my feet, miraculously odorless and thoroughly chastised. Most amazing, he was saying he was sorry. Who are you, and what have you done with my bone-headed huntin' dog??

A miracle had occurred. To me, it was on the same scale as Moses parting the waters or a nun in a cinnamon bun. I had somehow called a thick-headed mountain cur with a prey drive the size of Nebraska off the easiest prey he'd ever get to grab. It all spoke to the immense value of offering a firm correction at the very moment it is needed. Which is exactly at the moment the dog is doing the stupid thing. Not before. Not after. 

At. That. Moment. 

I praised Curtis, laughing and crying at the same time. He sheepishly accepted my hugs, then slunk off toward the front door. I tried to call him to me, so we could go a bit closer, look at the skunk together and talk about why we don't mess with skunks. He was having none of my yammer. He was done with that scene. 

Score one for the skunk! One for Curtis Loew! Score a huge one for Zick!

Slow clap for the dog.

I was so pathetically grateful to the skunk for holding her fire that I put GoodBoy Curtis inside and fetched a handful of his kibble to throw to her. In this video, she's gladly vacuuming up my offering. Yep, 85% dumb, and 100% grateful, that's me. There's just something about skunks that I adore, and no amount of inconvenience and discomfort that they cause can change that. My heart surged with hope that, against all odds and Curtis' inborn ways, we had finally found a way to coexist.

                

You know there's more to the story. There's always more.

My Funky Valentine

I heard a little voice this morning. It said, "Get out and hike before it rains." 

I listened. Good things happen when I listen to the little voice.

Sure enough, when I looked at the radar, there was a sludge of green coming up out of the southwest that was going to make things, already saturated, even wetter. Hurry.

I threw on a raincoat, bitchin' waxed cowboy hat, ear warmers, and I grabbed my camera raincoat, too. No question I was going to take the big rig. There was something out there waiting for me. The little voice nudged and nudged. Get out there! It's waiting!

I didn't know where I was going. I had about four destinations in mind. I cleared my mind, let it go blank. I took a left at the county road and had driven only a half-mile when I saw this in the neighbor's cow pasture.  YAAASSSSS

The First Daylight Skunk of 2018!!

Exxxx-cellent. I drove another 1/4 mile to safely stash my car, and trotted back. She was still there, nosing for grubs.

I know skunks well enough to keep in mind the wind direction before I approached. Dang it! Wind out of the west. It was going to blow my scent right to the skunk. But there was only one place I could get a shot at her and that was the bar gate, which was directly west of the skunk. Oh well. Here goes. I crouched down to shoot, knowing it would be a limited-time offer.

Sure enough, her head snapped up. She'd caught my scent--the only thing that means much to a skunk. Sound and sight mean not much at all. But the whiff of face cream and soap...

Through the corral boards, I got a shot of her as she trundled away. Darn it!

But I didn't give up. I climbed the bar gate and followed her. And was humbled to find she had vanished utterly from sight. I couldn't even hear her footsteps. In that short time, she'd plunged down a steep hill and into the woods. Well, OK. It was still nice to see the First Daylight Skunk of 2018.

I decided to explore this gorgeous steep pasture, which had been woods not so long ago. Around here, anything is fair game for grazing. What choice do people have? So they fell the forest, seed grass in and put cows on the flanks of the steep hills. It doesn't work very well; they wind up feeding a lot of hay.

I was loping along the slope when I saw that little skunk making her way through a strip of woodland, headed for me. Hooray!! She popped out into the open and I quickly circled until I was downwind of her.  I was sashaying left as she came on.

I knew when I could smell her that she couldn't smell me. Using the wind would be my Cloak of Invisibility. Because skunks don't use their eyes much at all. 

I had decided this was a female skunk because it wasn't very big, and was rather fine-boned. I got a female vibe off her. Man, she kept coming at me. I was chuckling and crab-walking as fast as I could to stay downwind and just off her projected path. It was a little like quartering a very small tornado on the prairie. 

It was a thrill to be so close to her, and for her to be unafraid. She didn't know I was there. It was all about whether or not she could smell me. I got long, leisurely looks at her. She was a pretty fancy little animal. I liked her wide stripes, and big white tailtip. Her tail is a bit unusual, being grizzled white and black, so that it has a grayish appearance. I'll know her if I encounter her again.

She looked directly at me, and decided she didn't like the looks of me. 

And she hurried away.

I followed at a respectful distance, happy to wait for the innate forgetfulness of skunks to take over and help her relax. I could see she wasn't scared, just a bit suspicious. I smiled as I framed this shot, thinking about the little inkblot I'd framed so many thousands of times in the last 12 years. I miss him dearly. But a wary skunk will do. Even if I can't run up behind it and throw my arms around it and give it a kiss.

 If I'm learning anything, I'm learning to go with what I have. I try not to spend a whole lot of time yearning for what I don't. Sure, there are days when it's all I can do. We all have those.

And as if she got my thought, that skunk turned exactly as Chet Baker used to, to check behind to see if I was coming along. I was floored by the perfection of the scene, and framed it quickly, just as I would have had that inkblot been my sweet friend.

Zooming in quickly, I caught her paw lifted--Chet used to do that, too. 

Was this skunk a messenger? If the thought comes to me that a creature might be acting as a messenger, she likely was.

That's how it works, at least in my world. Thought becomes truth. Who can say Chet didn't send this animal to me, didn't nudge me out the door this morning? Or maybe the little voice was Ida, or DOD. There was a conjunction of little voice, irrepressible urge to hike and a beautiful encounter. Thank you, whoever kicked me out the door.

After nabbing this shot of my funky Valentine, I had plenty of time to catch up with her. She began digging, in the sweet forgetfulness of a busy little animal. 

There's no question she was onto me. But she was also absorbed in digging pits and finding food. 

She was thin from the long winter's sleep, and she had work to do.

She stopped to scratch an itch, doglike, with her hind leg.

The camera caught the moment those long hind claws raked through her fetid ivory locks. 

I imagine when you've been in a den asleep for weeks, the fleas have a field day with you.

She was so doglike and so catlike as she luxuriated in a good scratch. Little CatDog. 

She dug again, and this time she dug deep.

This wasn't just turning over old cowpies...

This was excavation! Skunks dig neat funnel-shaped pits as they go along. Some are small and some are big, but they tend to be conical.  And there's often a round nose impression or two at the bottom.

She unearthed a sizeable object and quickly backed up. She rolled it along with her front paws several feet backward, as if to get all the dirt off it before eating it.  See how her tail is bent under from the motion?

Got me sumpin'.

This is the best I could do for detail. You can see her pink jaw and white teeth, and back of that,  a sort of greenish-gray grub with clear segmentation. Not sure, but I'd guess it might be a longhorn beetle larva. It was big and very chewy, that much I could tell. I did not hear cracking as you would had it been a pupa in a shell.

Whatever it was, it was goood!!

I enjoy watching animals work, unbothered. I'm not sure there's much I would have enjoyed more than following this skunk for forty minutes on a rainy day in mid-February. 

Oddly, I just recorded the audio version of my True Nature column, "Crepuscular," for the March/April issue of Bird Watcher's Digest.  

The column, written a year ago, is all about night stalking of skunks. 

It's a little primer for anyone who wants a richer life. All you have to do is get outside. Promise.

BWD is having a Valentine's Day special--

One year for only $14! Why not subscribe? But come back here for mo skunk.

She raised her head again, sniffing for me. But I was still downwind. I assure you, I could smell her!

Hmm. Something is amiss here, but I can't smell it. What that big gray lump that clicks is, I do not know. But it hasn't hurt me yet, and the grubbing is good here.

In case you're wondering, it never occurred to her to raise her tail and threaten me, just as it never occurred to me that I might get sprayed. That wasn't going to happen. I go into skunk following with a positive attitude. I take care to stay downwind; I scramble quietly to get out of their way when they walk up to me, and everything takes care of itself. Perhaps the key is ascribing no malintent to the skunk.  I don't think of them as evil or out to get me. I am not afraid of them.  Quite the opposite. I know they are very afraid of me. 

As I followed her, I wrote an extended haiku, a sort of tribute to her innocence.

My scent makes skunks run.

I'm the scariest beast here.

Carrier of death

I hold the power

Archetype of ancestors

I know it's not true

I am no better 

No more ruler of these woods

Than squirrel or skunk.

Humans live to prove

Our superiority

Over beast, fish, fowl

I am outnumbered

By mindless majority

Who fear this sweet skunk

Who wishes only

to be left alone to dig

Crunch down her larvae;

Live her good skunk life.

No wonder she fears people.

She is without sin.

I had put this little animal on alert for long enough. I didn't want to pester her any more. 

So when she moved on, I hung back.

She stopped one more time to scratch herself.

Farewell, sweet skunk. Perhaps we'll meet again someday. 

She's the little inkblot in the left lower center below. I started following her up by the farmhouse you can see on the ridge. Several hills and valleys traversed. Skunks travel. They may look low-slung and not good for the distance, but they move it on out. 

I climbed the east bargate, big rig draped in plastic, for it had started to rain again. 

Climbing fences with a big camera, like skunk stalking, is a bit of an art in itself.

I headed out over the hill, even though the rain was picking up. I had the right gear, and I liked the way the rain made the muddy road shine. It drew me onward.

This is the brim of my waxed cowboy hat, which was streaming with rain. I kept dipping my head to let it run off. 

I found a fox squirrel's stash of hickory nut shells. A midden, more than a stash. All the goodie is gone.  This seems to be the time of year when hickory nuts are center stage. More on that in my next posts.

Caught this image of the Toothless Lady in the rain. I hadn't noticed the beauty of her shingles until they were wet. Like seashells with the rain's luster.

In a shed, I found a skunk turd. Not terribly old. How do I know it's a skunk turd? 

It has a green stinkbug carapace in it. There are not many people who will eat a stinkbug. 

Skunks are one of them. 

I identify skunk droppings by all the shiny beetle parts in them. Skunks are hell on beetles and their larvae. Go skunks!  

Beetles are among the most abundant animals on earth. When asked what the study of natural history had taught him about the Creator, evolutionary biologist J.B.S. Haldane is supposed to have said, "God has an inordinate fondness for beetles." 

I walked on until I got to the farmstead. I wanted to see the couch in the rain. The last time I shot it, it was covered with snow. Either one works for me. I didn't expect to get fond of this couch when I first beheld it, but I love shooting it. I also love how the poison ivy vines make the chimney look like it's moving, like a person's head in an old daguerrotype.

 Chet Baker was always climbing up into its lap, sniffing around. He found a little toy in it once, and some kind of crumbs, which he ate. God knows how long they'd been in there. Sixty years?

I went around to the side of the house to see if I could find the daffodils coming up.

And just like magic, there they were. By gum.

And in my mind's eye, the sun was out and warm and the jonquils were wafting sweet, and suddenly into the frame came the best little photobomber anyone ever had, headed over to give me a kiss.

I have sweet memories. I'm going with what I have. Grief into gratitude.

 I made it back to the car, only about a mile beyond the Toothless Lady, as the rain picked up. 

When I got home, I went straight to the greenhouse, which has, mysteriously, been a source mostly of drear lately. Not sure what's wrong, but all the plants are languishing. Maybe the fact that it never gets any sun at all? Think that could have something to do with it?

 And I found that my Christmas cactus, which famously thrive on neglect, had pushed forth a single, utterly spectacular Valentine. BOOM. Well, thank you! Your timing: Fabulous. As is your form.

And Goliath the geranium, more than 5' across now, and getting its leaves scorched by the heater, was full of red-hot cheer.

 This extended skunk, grub, turd, flower and rain reverie has been brought to you by my inexplicable need to share what I have.

Especially for Erin and Kate, who love skunks and might just need these photos and words today.

                                                           Happy Valentine's Day!