How many is enough?  Skunk encounters that is

As I’ve mourned the death of Bidi this week, mixed in with all the great memories are some not-so-great ones involving skunks.  

My first close encounter with a skunk occurred the first summer we lived here. It was 6 am on a weekend morning, designed for sleeping in, when Jack (whose sleep was always erratic) bellowed up the stairs “You gotta come!”  A light sleeper and instant-riser, I leapt out of bed and flew down thinking something truly awful was underway.  I was not disappointed.

“Look,” Jack pointed out the kitchen window. On the walkway in our yard behold, a skunk with its head encased in a Tim Horton’s Ice Cap cup.  

“Oh god. Where are the dogs?” I asked, worried that Bidi and her mother, Kora, were part of this excitement.  

“Basement,” he replied, and added, “now.  Kora jumped right through the screen of the basement door!”  He beamed proudly about his then nine year old boxer.  “Skunk’s too close to death to react to her though. I got Kora back inside.” 

“And Bidi?”

“Not involved,” dramatic pause, “yet, anyway.”  

I ignored his mild attempt to get me panicking over my baby, Bidi, and looked more closely at the skunk. It was weaving and wobbling and banging its head on the concrete, trying to free itself to facilitate proper breathing.  I understood why it had no energy to lift its tail towards Kora. 

“I have to save it,” Jack said, broom handle in hand. “Do we have any string?”  Keeping track of things in the house had already tacitly fallen into the Celia column of division of duties just as lassoing cups off skunks’ heads was obviously in the Jack column.   

“Here,” I handed him a ball of jute.  “Exactly how are you going to do this?” I was realizing our fun morning hadn’t even gotten started yet. 

“Not sure.” He was fashioning a loop and attaching it with shiny red tuck tape to the end of the broom handle.  Jack was at his happiest when he was McGyvering.   He had a DuMaurier hanging out of his mouth ready to light it when he got outside.  

“Ok, I’m going out. Got the camera handy?” I laughed.  He knew this would make a terrific story and he wanted photographic evidence to go alongside. I regret not having one of him in action and the one of the skunk itself is grainy, but you’ll get the idea. 

I watched through the porch window while he sidled up to our new friend, close enough, but not too close.  Twice he swung his lasso but it failed to catch. Each time he backed away to take a drag on his smoke and recalibrate his instrument.  The third time it stayed on. As he blew smoke out his nostrils, he drew the noose tight and carefully pulled the cup up and off. The skunk took a deep breath of smoky yet caffeine-free air and sauntered down the walkway.  We watched as he squeezed between the metal slats of the back gate, wearing the the lid of the cup like a battle souvenir.  Jack let the dogs out to sniff the skunk’s wake and celebrated his victory with another cigarette.  

Not long after, we had Bidi spayed. “For a couple of days, keep her on-leash and don’t let her get wet,” were the vet’s parting words as we left with Bidi safely encased in her cone of humiliation. 

We got home 30 minutes later, and as we entered the yard, Jack unhooked both leashes. 

“Jack, the vet said…” 

“She’ll be fine,” cutting me off before I could finish. “We’ll leave the cone on if you insist.”

“I do insist and it’s on you if she rips her stitches.” Jack was likely right — he often was about the dogs.  I decided to trust him.

Hours later, we were hosting a BBQ, dogs freely wandering the yard.  A kerfuffle broke out near the back of the property - both dogs barking like mad.  Jack and I both ran towards it.  He grabbed Kora; I headed for Bidi.  As I got near her, I was knocked back by a smell - chemical - not something I’d ever experienced.  She seemed dazed by the odour which was more powerful with her reduced airflow inside the cone.   

“What the hell is it, Jack?  It’s too intense to be skunk.”  Neither of us had ever experienced it so up-close-and-personal. 

It was indeed skunk. The next morning, I sought advice from the vet who began with a reprimand. I replied “you’ve met Jack, right?” The vet’s advice? live with the smell because getting Bidi’s injection wet would will be worse. 

So began an annual assault on our olfactory systems.  Each year, Kora and Bidi got sprayed and each year, we lived with it. Avoiding it seemed impossible, with Jack’s approach to dog parenting. I felt lucky he never got sprayed as well, given he sat smoking just inside the open basement door. 

One night I got home after dark and found him chuckling. “Skunk got sprayed by me tonight,” he reported triumphantly.  

“You mean the other way ‘round.” 

“No. Seriously. I was sitting smoking and I saw skunk approach. I was able to shut door just as it nose poked in.”

“Shit, Jack seriously? How big?” 

“Yeah, big old skunk. Teeth yellow.” 

My eyes widened and narrowed simultaneously, as they so often did when he recounted stories, so much so I let all the English syntax errors he usually wanted me to correct pass us by.

“It was still outside the door so I went to back porch.” The door over the back porch is directly over the basement door. “The skunk was still there. So I got hose.” 

I was laughing by now. The image of Jack spraying a skunk was too absurd.   As I so often was, I was grateful I’d spared this bit of excitement. 

“Where were the dogs?”  

“Slept through.” 

Living as I do beside a park, skunks are a fact of life but in the later years of Bidi’s life — post Jack - I did a much better job of preventing the unwelcome meetings. Only once in those four years did I slip up, resulting in a quick brush for both Bidi and Molly. I was so enured to the stuff by then, I just put up with it. You can give me all your old wives tales about baking soda and peroxide and pet store remedies: it’s all BS.  You let your dog go free in your yard between dusk to dawn, then there’s a reasonable chance you’ll have lots of space on the commuter train the next day. 

Molly? Well, she’s riding high - literally - as top dog in the house now, greatly minimizing her chances of take a hit.  For this I am grateful.  Best of luck to all you after-dusk dog walkers these days. Fall is prime skunk season. 

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