Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

There they were, as cozy as could be, obviously an item. She didn't seem to care that she was blatantly strolling down the sidewalk with someone new, only a few blocks away from the house where she lived with another man. She looked as ladylike as ever, with her thick white hair and dignified pace.

And her waving plume of a tail.

She, in this case, was the Great Pyrenees (think St. Bernard, only white and a bit less jowly) that lives along my regular walking route. I see her often, out with her owner, so it was a surprise the other day to see her with someone new.

It was even more of a surprise, a couple of blocks later, to see her walking with her owner just as usual.

Oh. I didn't know there was a second Great Pyrenees in the neighborhood. Never mind.

Watching dogs walk their people is one of the things that keeps my mind occupied while I, not having a dog to look after me, am out walking myself. There are as many different walking styles as there are breeds of dogs and body types of people.

There's the all-business chocolate lab who sets a brisk pace and is too focused on his destination to bother with being petted by strangers. The two lively little dogs, sharing the same woman with separate leashes, who are so busy trying to sniff everything that they yank her in opposite directions. The three Shelties, also with one woman but separate leashes, who trot along with such obedience and good behavior that it's almost scary. I've wondered whether drugs might be involved.

One of my favorites is the middle-sized terrier that ranges out to the end of its unreeling leash, dashing through the weeds and exploring here and sniffing there with unrelenting energy. Meanwhile, its owner ambles along in her pajama pants and flip flops, with the leash in one hand and her coffee cup in the other. There's more than one way to enjoy an early morning walk.

Earlier this summer, on a visit to Devils Tower, we saw a family heading out along the path that circles the tower. It looked like Mom, Grandma, and three kids ranging in age from about four to ten. Mom was pushing a baby stroller, one of those deluxe jobs with room for so much stuff that it would be easy to overlook the kid altogether. As we passed them, I glanced inside to see the baby.

There, in regal splendor, sat a tiny terrier, all bright eyes and brisk mustaches. Now, there was a dog that knew how to take his people for a walk.

In the coolness of early morning, the aroma was earthy, with self-assured woodsy top notes and a confident musky undertone. It was clear evidence, especially backed up by the marks of fresh digging beside the bush by the front door, that a skunk had been in our front yard.

Being a person who used to know eleventeen verses of "Kumbaya" and who tries to be tolerant and inclusive, I have no personal animosity toward skunks. From an appropriate distance, they're even kind of cute. And it's hard not to have a little sympathy for a critter whose Latin name, Mephitis mephitis, translates as "noxious vapor noxious vapor." Surely just once would have gotten the point across. Repeating it seems a little rude.

All of that peace, love, and tolerance, however, does not mean I want a skunk living in my yard. The morning after I smelled it, I saw it for the first time, rippling its way across the back yard. After several more sightings over the next few days, I had figured out that it was living under a wood pile just a few feet from the garage door.

I called the animal control number. Sorry, the man told me—not sounding sorry at all—but they didn't do skunks. He offered to rent us a live trap for a mere $10 a week, but said, "Once you catch it, you're on your own."

Hmmm, let's think about this. Which is worse, a skunk living in the back yard, minding its own business, or a seriously irritated skunk in a live trap?

Even though we have a one-acre lot in a neighborhood that feels somewhat rural, we're in the city limits. I'm sure shooting a skunk with a .22 would be frowned upon, even if I were a good shot, which I'm not. My partner, who is a good shot, was out of town. Of course, accurate shooting might not be strictly necessary, since the skunk's cozy little home was right next to the propane tank, though the potential for collateral damage would be a bit high.

About now I remembered a story my father told a long time ago. He and several neighbors were working together, shelling corn. At that time, corn was harvested with a machine that left the ears intact. It was stored in bins and then later run through a corn sheller that stripped the kernels off the cobs. The men were shoveling corn into a conveyer that moved the ears up into the machine. All at once a skunk ran out from under the grain bin and made a dash for a quieter neighborhood. As it ran along the row of men, each one stepped back to let it go by. Except the last guy in line, who jumped on the skunk and stomped it to death.

Thinking about that particular piece of gratuitous idiocy made me feel somewhat kinder toward the critter in our back yard, though I still wasn't happy about having it there. It didn't help when my sweetheart got back from his trip. His contribution to solving the problem was to name the skunk Priscilla.

The next evening, I saw Pris—er, the skunk again. With the air of someone on important business, it was trotting toward the ravine at the back of our lot. I haven't seen it since. Maybe, all this time, while I was thinking unkind thoughts about our unwelcome lodger, it had been thinking unkind thoughts about the lack of privacy in our woodpile and the poor quality of the table scraps in our compost pile. Maybe it had decided to move on.

Then last night, just after I went to bed, the cool breeze coming through the bedroom window brought with it an unmistakable aroma—earthy, with a musky undertone.

Drat. My only hope now is that one of the neighbors has a really stupid dog.