BLESSING THE SKUNK
by donald hinkle
On my daily walk, a week ago, I passed a large house on a bluff overlooking the Vineyard Sound, and saw a feline shape moving erratically under the two vehicles in the driveway. I paused and watched. It was a small skunk, possibly not mature because the white patch on the back of its neck did not extend down the back to its tail. It was daylight, time for skunks to be in their holes.
Then I saw: Its head was stuck in a yogurt cup, on the small end rather than the large. I watched it bump into tires and the garage door and, like one of those vacuuming robots, turn and go in an opposite direction until it bumped into something else.
I was the only person around. I was scared of getting zapped by skunk stuff, but realized that it was my duty to free him. After I thought that, and briefly asked God for help, the skunk left being under the vehicles and headed for the end of the driveway and the street. I wondered if I would have to chase it back onto the grass, but it turned around and moved in my direction.
Moving around me erratically, it got close but not quite close enough. I was certain that if I did remove the cup, I'd get sprayed (quick vision of my wife having to bathe me in tomato juice). I stiffened my resolve, and made a hesitant grab; my fingers hit the end of the cup and the skunk startled, ran away.
I looked around, hoping someone else would appear to help, perhaps by limiting the skunk’s running space. A jogger went by, watching me and the skunk, without offering aid.
Of the 350 odd degrees that surrounded me, the skunk seemed to try each for a few steps, then turn back and try another. I thought again, God, help that skunk come close so I can get the cup. The skunk moved randomly for a few more minutes, almost retreated into some shrubbery, but turned and came back again toward my feet. Closer. Closer.
I grabbed faster than I realized I could move, got the cup and lifted...and both cup and skunk left the ground. Then the skunk popped out of the cup five feet in the air and I was staring into his small face. He dropped to the grass and faced me. Shook his head, squared off at me.
I said, “I'm a friend, I took that cup off.” He turned and his tail went up and
it seemed I was due for a squirt, but, tail high, he bustled off into a cluster of bushes on the other side of the road.
I think he was grateful, but evolution and skunk society don’t provide many ways for a skunk to say thanks.
