I improvised this morning.
I chose the 18 millimeter option over the 9 millimeter option because I want to remain a trusted neighbor. No one wants to hear gunfire at 0346hrs.
Here, let me add clarity.
Waking from a bad dream that found me running through an imaginary mall looking for at least one copy of my new book for a reviewer for the New York Times. I came to my senses when I was awakened by faint sighs of stress from the black and white box-a-dor lying by the bed. In the dream, everyone had sold out.
You can imagine my dismay, a mope from Maine, having a limited chance at getting my writing considered by a newspaper columnist from such a widely distributed publication and finding none available for her to take back to her lair to criticize my words and syntax in grand fashion.
Upon rising, wiping the drowsy droopiness from my eyes, I spoke to the dog, Ellie, in hushed tones.
“I get it, kid. I didn’t let you out for your last pee just before bed. This is my fault, let’s get you outside.”
She wagged with delight, repeatedly bumping into me every time I stopped to allow my eyes to focus on the floor-to-rug, to floor, tripping options in front of me.
I keep the house very dark. I can prove it with a copy of my electric bill. People are amazed at my ability to keep it under sixty-five bucks, but I do.
Even the solar salesman that I had to invite to leave my property more than once the other day was amazed at my willingness to turn him down in favor of tripping down the halls instead of signing up for the scam he presented with the skill of a seasoned purveyor of used cars or life insurance that I can never be denied.
I digress.
I turned on the back patio light, as I always scan for critters. Sometimes moving a porcupine along with harsh words, but so far, up here on the hill, I’d seen no skunks. That is, until this morning.
I’m very thankful now that it was a juvenile, or at least it looked small. But it wouldn’t leave the yard, rooting around for something to eat for far too long.
I was smug, taking a quick video to share my delight that Ellie had missed her date with an odiferous destiny, me checking the surroundings like a boss, being the most judicious and sly dog dad on the planet.
I did look for the pellet dispensing tool when the skunk wouldn’t leave the yard. After all, Ellie’s bathroom options take precedence, especially in my dooryard.
I own a pellet rifle that can be pumped up ever so slightly to prod critters to move along after their buns are stung, but I sent that to my son about six months ago for pigeon control in the tractor barn.
I do have access to firearms, as you can imagine, but that option seemed a bit drastic.
I was in total control of the situation, standing in front of the sliding glass door, blocking the old dog with bad hips from finally getting what she had probably deserved a couple of times, remaining sweet-smelling as the biscuits she covets and consumes.
I went to the garage and found my BOMS (Bag of misfit sockets); it’s a gallon freezer bag holding loose metric and standard sockets that had for some reason or another been lost and recovered, lent and reborrowed, or simply recovered from strange places where sockets go to hide long enough to make me upset to the point I must purchase a new one; that’s when the missing sockets always come home. And that’s why I have the bag.
Throwing chrome sockets at a skunk to get it to move back into the cover of the nearby forest is not an exact science; that’s why I picked two sockets, only the pictured 18 millimeter being recovered after the melee that I started. I’ll look for the spark plug socket when the sun arrives later.
I slid open the back door, recoiled my arm that used to be able to send a baseball fast enough at the carnival speed machine booth that I could get a small fuzzy faux animal for some dame I’d talked into coming with me, and aimed for the center mass of Pepé Le Pew Jr. and let ‘er fly.
I missed, but he jumped, coming closer to my perch. The stinking beast was almost tame, probably looking for a scratch or an accolade for being such a kind, quiet neighbor.
My follow-up with the spark plug socket came closer, and that moved him back, confused by the dipstick in sweatpants who clearly wanted to do him/her harm.
That’s when Ellie lost all her marbles, finally seeing my intended target and taking the whole escapade into her own paws.
Ellie is an extremely strong dog. She runs almost eighty pounds now and isn’t scared of anything. She also loves cats. Never having had an encounter with a skunk before, I figured, while engrossed in her jetwash, that she wanted to meet the new kitty.
She got by me like a rocket; the floor-length curtains my mother hand-stitched were sucked outward—almost completely horizontal— by the suction created by the black dog’s plump tea-kettle moving at the speed of mid-80s Scud missile, but the skunk stood its ground.
This was concerning to me, as I began hollering things that would send my mother into a bad case of the vapors. Mothers’ spirits are always cinched tightly into the hem of the things they’ve sewn, I know this.
I can’t believe how loud I was, but most of what came out of my pie-hole was, “Noooooo, Ellie, Nooooo. Come, come, come.” Or something like that. I believe I said it ten times in the span of three seconds.
Ellie did not come, and the skunk bounced around with its tail high in the air in a beautifully choreographed circular waltz, probably getting ready to spray, but he/she did not.
Ellie was not biting the skunk; she was simply trying to become an intimate friend, like she had with many ‘cats’ before. She wasn’t growling, just trying to keep up with a very quick skunk.
I lost my voice about seventeen seconds into the charade, waiting for the inevitable and overpowering taste of the heinous glandular discharge and the ensuing eye-watering, tomato, lemon juice, hydrogen peroxide, Dawn dish detergent dance that I’d now been invited to attend.
Nothing.
Ellie, finally knowing that my screams of outrage and terror (mostly for me, because I hate cleaning dogs covered in skunk- stunk) came walking back over and sat down beside me.
Ellie then excused herself and sauntered back into the house through the wide-open sliding door, slumping down on the floor, ashamed that I had to yell so long and so loud.
She began to watch me over her shoulder, waiting to go back out to pee, because she never got the chance. Photo attached.
I have to tell you folks, I cannot believe that no one was stinking to high, high heaven after this incredible turn of early morning events.
I would like to thank the skunk for its act of kindness and apologize to the neighbors. What you heard was not, after all, a murder.
After searching for my remaining lost socket in the yellowing glow of a flashlight with low batteries, I realized that I had at least one more spare, and that I’d certainly find this one with the lawnmower in the coming days.
I’ll add the glass replacement company phone number to my contacts.
Ellie still smells good, and went out to pee on a leash only moments ago.
I have attached the video of the prequel. Note my calm demeanor and glee in knowing that I had beaten the system once again.
And, once again, I was wrong, but it still turned out okay.
I love the smell of small miracles in the morning.
From the Jagged Edge of America, we remain,
TC
Ellie
&
Pepé
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