Skunks Throw Straight
Tony was a new kid, and nothing but trouble. He moved from Sioux City to our sleepy valley where everyone knew everyone, and we all had horses. I found him suspicious, and exciting. I didn’t want to be his friend, but was curious about his skillset: hot-wiring cars, jimmying odometers, making explosives. At 12 years of age I could already keep jerky boys at arms length while still mining all that they could show me. We were poor, and I was pretty sure that if I invited him home he would steal one of my many knives that I had won in a bet, in a fight, or traded for.
At 12 years of age I could already keep jerky boys at arms length while still mining all that they could show me.
Tony was on my mind as I stepped into country dusk to go burn the trash (we had no such thing as trash-pick up). I heard a clanging under our ’66 Chevy Impala and I just knew it was Tony, stripping parts. Right away I thought of going to grab my dad’s gun. Instead, I hollered: “You sonofabitch! Hey, get outa there! Hey!”
Out waddled a big fat skunk, a mason jar stuck on its head. I felt no guilt thinking that about Tony. I whimpered and danced an “oh no oh no” dance, my mind racing on how I could save this animal for which I had a soft spot, unlike my dog.
A couple years earlier I had purged all my childish stuffed animals, except for Henry, the bright green bear, and Flower, my fluffy skunk. Today was my day to be heroic, and save a real-life Flower. I ran, crouched, arms outstretched, put both hands on the jar, and gave it a firm, steady pull. The skunk dug her long toenails into the dusty gravel, giving me a counter-pull. The jar stayed put, not budging. Fearing she would spray me I ran backwards, and recalled my dad telling me skunks threw their tails straight over their heads, with the strong-smelling repellant in a direct, narrow line. I rehearsed diving to the side, if it came to that, where she thought I was a threat.
Today was my day to be heroic, and save a real-life Flower.
I had to try again to free her. I crept back, slower and more gingerly this time. I again put my hand on the jar, but this time I put my other hand on her shoulder. Her fur was not fluffy, like Flower, but bristly. I pulled and pulled. I tried twisting the jar slightly, pulling up, pulling down. She let me. Nothing worked. I thought of going in the house to get some lard to lubricate her neck, but if I told my dad a skunk had a jar stuck on its head he would just come out and shoot it.
Time was getting short. She was losing oxygen, showing panic, and stumbling. I ran to our grease-laden garage across the driveway wide enough for haying equipment, and grabbed a ball-peen hammer. This was risky. I could accidently hurt her, by hitting too hard, or the broken glass could cut her. Or, once I broke the jar, I felt pretty certain she would spray me. I again approached her, and murmured some assurance to us both for the best outcome. Swinging the hammer lightly, but sure enough for one well-landed hit, the jar broke, but didn’t shatter. The hammer ball did not proceed to her skull, my biggest fear. I leapt sharply to the side and watched. She livened up, threw her head in the air, and skittered in inchoate circles. She sneezed and looked at me. I looked back, from 6 feet away. As she turned to fade into darkness I saw with horror that the mouth, the ring of the jar was still intact around her neck.
For years to come, it stayed there, as she, each spring would come to parade her kits in front of me.
Chris’ note – I met Kate in the winter of 2024, when the two of us lived together in a beautiful rental home, along with two other women, on the hillsides of Guanajuato, Mexico. Conversations in the shared kitchen and drinks on the patio led to a quick and easy connection. Our common passion for writing and more time spent together in Guanajuato on a return visit has made that connection grow stronger.