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.

Animal Magic on Dean's Fork

By July 13, 2016, the Canada lilies I'd never known were there burst into bloom on the banks of the  pond. Blue campanula set them off nicely. I left a note on the door of the sometime inhabitants of the little solar-powered cabin nearby, to go look for these ephemeral floral treats. I like doing stuff like that, shining a little light into the woods for others to see. 

Wild bergamot in two colors, July 13, 2016

And who could forget July 24, 2016, my birthday, when I was showered with gifts by my favorite dirt road? I swear, it seemed all the animals came out to wish me well!  I'll admit that it does help to walk there at dusk, when they're coming out anyway.

Twin bucks, July 24, 2016. Gosh, ya think they're brothers?

One of the twins has better judgement. Can you guess which one?

The most beautiful skunk came out to show me his pink toes and nose.  He rumbled right up the road toward us. We had to climb a bank to get out of his way!

I recognized him from early morning skunk watchings I'd been conducting. There were three skunks living down there last summer, and I met them all several times. Skunks are a behavior-watcher's ideal animal, because each one is as distinct in markings as a smelly lil' snowflake.

But the best birthday present of all was waiting down in the gloaming, just as it was getting dark. My Hannah, the Loose Appaloosa, an apparition in the dusk.

And this evening, the last time I saw Hannah, she was more beautiful and kind to me than ever. I didn't know it was the last time. I simply treasured it, like all the other times I met up with her, and loved on her. 

She's gone on, I'm told, to live elsewhere,  about two hours away, with other horse friends. I miss her more than I can say.

July 24, 2016.

From that same day, a wood thrush concerto that now, in early April, seems otherworldly, unbelievably rich. It's hard to believe they'll be back soon and tuning their flutes in a matter of a week or two. This video was taken just below the dam, along a low wet meadow that's full of Joe-Pye weed and ironweed in August. Here it is in late July, with the thrushes spinning their silvery songs across the road.

By September  28, 2016, after a lush wonderful start and a hideously dry late summer, the pond had all but dried up. It was sad, but inevitable, because the half-dam the beaver had built didn't set back enough water to last through the drought. 

At least this drying out was gradual, not the cataclysm of September 1, 2014. I resigned myself to watching this little ecosystem briefly flourish, be destroyed, creep back to a shadow of its former glory, dry up...whatever fate and that lawless jackass brought, I'd be there to witness. Dean's Fork and I are too intertwined for me to turn away from it; its riches are so varied and precious I literally starve without them. Since I first started walking this road in perhaps 2007, it has become essential to my well-being. It is my habitat, in some ways even more than my home and gardens are. When I am there, I have complete thoughts; I write songs; I leave my corporeal body and commune with the animals; I connect to who I really am. 

Skunks: The Three Musk-eteers

In mid-July, I made a series of runs down Dean’s, full of joy that my little buddy Chet feels up for adventure again, and leads me at a smart trot, going and coming.

He's found something delicious in the weeds, and is hurrying to catch back up. 

Rabbit poop again, Bacon?

That's for me to know and you to find out.

 July 16 was a cloudy, flat day, but the Canada lilies were abloom with their surprising red amidst blue washes of bellflower. Egad what a gulp of a flower! I can't spot one without emitting a squeal of delight. 

Wild bergamot’s turpentiney scent hung heavy in the thick air.

A small, short-tailed warbler flitting madly through the mid-canopy proved to be a juvenile cerulean, who came down to eye-level and chipped at me. Of course, I had no camera rig that could capture her, but here's a photo from July 25, 2010, right in our yard. Such a gorgeous plumage the fall immature cerulean sports!! It's a blue-green I've seen on no other warbler, save perhaps a young male black-throated blue.

 nor could I do anything with the pair of indigo buntings who sidestepped up the Joe-Pye weed stems, spitting their alarm calls at me. Down near the end of the road, where it meets blacktop, a yellow-billed cuckoo called and landed just overhead. It dropped its bright rufous primaries, hiked its tail, and a male cuckoo swooped in and answered the invitation with a quick copulatory flurry of wings. Well! Knowing how brief the nesting cycle of cuckoos is—only 17 days from egg-laying to fledging of the chicks—a mid-July mating didn’t seem so strange. But it was a delightful surprise.  My late momma Ida throws cuckoos and thrashers at me. I smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. Message received!

Also a delightful surprise was the skunk I found rooting around in a long strip of meadow. Mostly white with a black undercarriage, it foraged as if it hadn’t a care in the world. Skunks seem not to worry what might be going on around them; they’re so heavily armed that they can handle whatever might come. This gives them a demeanor that recalls Mr. Magoo—nearsighted, slightly bumbling, and utterly endearing. They are among my favorite mammals. I took note of the time: 6:45 AM, and resolved to return with my big camera to try to catch him again. Cellphone photos of skunks: not so good.

This is the best I could do with my cellphone on my second try at skunks. I was breathtakingly close to the black skunk, so close that when he disappeared into vegetation just below the bank I was sitting on, I quietly arose and trotted away. I did NOT want that skunk to pop out of the tangle right at my feet!

Two days later, I returned, running shoes traded in for hiking boots, my 6-pound Canon 7D and  70-300mm telephoto on my shoulder. I was astounded to find not one but three striped skunks foraging in the same meadow. Persistence, richly rewarded. The grass was wet from the night’s rain, and so was their fur, arranged in wild dreadlocks by the dew. 

 Foraging must have been good, for the three barely looked up, and they came so close I could hear them snorting and chewing beetle grubs and whatever else they were digging out. One got a seed hull or bug down his windpipe, and the little animal began wheezing, and I laughed as I found myself instinctively wanting to run to it to cover its nostrils like I do for Chet Baker when he gets the wheezles. That gesture might not be understood or appreciated, and I’d likely come out of my mission of mercy howling in agony and smelling of burnt tires and garlic. I have been sprayed by a skunk once, been really near Chet when he got sprayed once, and those two instances are quite enough. I never smell skunk perfume without marveling that such a beautiful little creature can produce such a powerful odor. How in the world do they even do it? How can they concentrate chemical compounds in their little glands that can be smelled for miles and miles?? Surely this is one of the great wonders of the world.

Skunks are difficult to connect with in a photograph because their heads are almost always down. When they came near, I’d squeak like a mouse to get them to raise their heads. Their hearing is excellent, and their eyesight is probably fine, too. They’d briefly look me dead in the eye and go on with their business. Their look seemed to say, “You again. Shut up. I’m working here.” Skunks have that weasel toughness, and they project confidence, or at the very least, unconcern. You give them room. You watch them, try to predict where they’re headed, and get out of their way if it’s toward you. 

You might at this point be wondering where Chet Baker was.

He was right beside me, watching skunks, too.

The beauty and wisdom of a mature dog. No barking. No fussing. No whining. No pulling at the (nonexistent) leash. He gets it, without words being passed between us. Those are skunks. I've seen those before. We don't mess with those. We just sit quietly and watch them. I often say that Chet's no brain surgeon, no wonder dog, but he's plenty smart enough for me. And I never appreciate that fact more than in a situation like this, where one false move by an excitable dog could ruin the photo salon, not to mention my clothes and equipment. Chet's my partner in the buddy movie of life. 

Three skunks in alignment. That's a hard shot to get, my friends. 

  I was highly amused to see two skunks come closer and closer together and finally contact one another, simply by running into each other.

 Tails whip straight up and wave around. I imagine there's some fancy stompy footwork going on, some communication I can't divine going down.

 I don't know what information was exchanged, but in both encounters (between the black and white skunks, and the two white-backed skunks) the animals seemed to touch noses and go separate ways without a snarl or scuffle.

I absolutely adore skunks. I'd love to know them better. For me, they're an infrequent treat, a scent wafting on the night air in early spring. I've always wanted to raise a little batch of 'em, if Fate would permit it. I've got my rabies shots; I've got my permits. I've sent my request out to the Universe. We'll see what happens.

For now, visiting these 6:45 AM beauties is more than enough. Such riches, to be able to go see skunks when I want to!

Because the Gods know when you're a mile from your car with your big camera rig and no raincoat, they unleashed a downpour when I was on my way back up the Fork. Just a little test of ingenuity for Zick. Let's see what she does.

I laughed, stripped off my shirt, wrapped the camera in it, and cradled it against my stomach, my body hunched over, and loped toward the car. Chet put on his rain ears, laid back flat against his neck. I got to the car with a dry rig, and a slight crick in my back. Body as rainshield, for 1.3 miles. It can be done.

For All The Stinkers on Your List

...the perfect gift.

I met a woman named Diane in New Mexico. She's had Flower since she (the skunk) was one day old. Flower's pretty imprinted on people, and unreleasable, so she's the ideal education skunk for The Wildlife Center. Ooh, I'm jealous. I've always wanted to raise a skunk or two.

Diane just sent me some pictures of Flower checking out Letters from Eden. Just a reminder for all you folks looking for that perfect after-Christmas, anytime gift...I'll sign it for you.This time last year I was taking garden cartloads of boxed books to the Whipple post office. And I wondered why I had no time to Christmas shop or wrap presents or do anything but paddle madly to stay afloat...I'm thrilled not to be handling a holiday rush on book sales. Almost 800 individually-signed and boxed copies later, I've had my fill of fulfillment for awhile.

Just got in from recording three more NPR commentaries in Athens, and leisurely shopping for stocking stuffers. What a blast. I never do stuff like that. Had a nice Reuben at a diner and did some people watching; saw a college girl in a long black trenchcoat, rainbow scarf, Raggedy Ann striped tights and dreadlocks skip across the street. That was cool, something I don't get to see every day. I used to skip, too, when I wasn't rolling along on red Krypto skatewheels.

Thanks for the pictures of sweet Flower, Diane. You made my day. Mustelids rule!