Skunk Hunt

First porcupines, now skunks.  Perhaps you’re thinking I have an uncanny attraction to all members of fauna in northern Michigan — but truth be told, I don’t.  I actually don’t care much for porcupines, or skunks, as this next episode will relate.

Last night we got home late from a friend’s house.  As usual, I got ready for bed — read my Bible, turned on my music…  I was in bed at about 11 pm, which is late for me, since I get up pretty early.  I was hoping to get to sleep fast because I had to be at church at 7 am, and was waking up at 5:30.  As I lay in bed looking out my window, the full moon glimmered on the sill and little beams lay like silver ribbons on my comforter.  I was almost asleep when I saw a movement on the grass below.  The moon made the outside almost as bright as day, but I couldn’t tell just what the creature was at first.  I thought it might be my cat Fatty, because the animal was dark with a white face; but the tail was unnaturally bushy.  “Maybe a squirrel?” I thought to myself.  Then it dawned on me that it could be a skunk.  I wasn’t sure, but I figured whether squirrel or skunk, it was better off dead, since neither provides benefit to the collective, at least not in terms that I could appreciate.   So leaping soundlessly from my slumber, I dashed up stairs and pounded on the bedroom door.  “Dad! Dad, there’s something under my window!”  He’s probably thinking,  “What is it this time, the Abominable Snowman?” Like I said before, there is a certain Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf tendency to the natural romantic that casts doubt upon all her claims; but we are striving for some attempt at practicality, are we not?  Dad came rushing out in his plaid pajamas to answer my pleas.  At the word ‘skunk’, he grabbed his .22 and followed me quietly onto the deck, from which he could shoot the seed-eating stinker.  But it heard us come out and made a fast track for the woods.  Four shots later, it was still waddling with remarkable capability.  Dad was not about to be outdone by a rodent.  While he donned his coat and boots I did the same and we chased that skunk nearly the entire length of the property, Dad in his plaid flannels and I in an ankle-length nightgown and boots.  The setting was lovely — sparkling snow, a full moon, still trees, brilliant stars — and perhaps with a little background music and Prince Charming the scene would have met my romantic ideals.  But reality has a way of making ideals seem rather idealistic.  I was in a gown, just not the right KIND of gown; and while Dad is great, he’s my dad after all and, well, the plaid pants… 

It was midnight when we came inside, skunkless, and cold (It was 15 degrees outside, by the way; try that in a nightgown.).  I expected a welcoming committee at the door begging to hear an explanation for the gunshots:  “Why was Phylicia out at midnight in a nightgown, and why was Dad chasing her with the .22?” But alas, no, it was not so.  All six remaining members of my family were still soundly snoring.  So much for appreciation — here we were out in the ice keeping an illegal away from the border, putting a lot more work into it than the government does, and who thanks us?  No one.  Now here is where being a Romantic has its benefits — while a Practical may think, “Wow, a chase in the snow at midnight with a gun and all I get is cold feet and a lousy sleep”, a Romantic can take with her all the lovely memories of a chase in the snow at midnight with a gun and write a fascinating blog post about it.  Being a Romantic can definitely have its advantages.

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