Skunk Hunting

Life is a series of reactions that aren't what you intend, to situations that aren't what they seem. A few months ago the neighbor asked if I'd be having any baby ducks this year, as she'd like some for her creek. Who's to say when a duck will feel broody, so I asked a friend incubate eggs for her. Twenty-eight days later I received an adorable photo of 3 freshly hatched ducklings. I had just started to respond, when my husband walked brusquely into the house. “We have a duck problem!” he shouted.

My brain went immediately to broken wings and mangled legs as I dropped my phone—text unsent—shoving my feet into the nearest shoes (not mine) in my struggle to get outside. My husband just stood grim and quiet as he pointed down the walk. My panicked questions died in my throat as I stared in silence as a duck waddled proudly across the yard with 12 black babies in tow. I was so relieved nothing was dead—and then horrified that now I had 12 babies I needed to find homes for—and the only person I knew that wanted ducks, had babies hatching that day in the incubator! A series of reactions...

It was fun the next few days watching that momma walk them around and teach them to swim in the pond. I noticed myself doing quick counts every time I came home: 1, 2, 3...5...8...10, 11, 12—all safe and accounted for. When they were about four days old, I was doing my count, but only made it to 11. We found one dead near the pond. The next morning there were 3 more dead. The morning after that, 5—and the smell of skunk hung in the air.

I was so angry. A reaction I didn't intend, considering I hadn't exactly wanted a dozen more ducks. My husband thought the 28 that I have are plenty—and that was before a random brown duck flew in one day and decided to stay!

Later that day, we discovered that we were also down 9 baby chicks. Something had to be done. It was time to hunt skunk. But exactly how does one go about that? A few phone calls and 10 borrowed traps later—and that skunk should be shaking in his pole cat boots! I started making up my own lyrics to a Cledus Judd parody called “Goodbye Squirrel.”

Goodbye Skunk. Hey guess what...you've eaten your last duck... Skunk!

I'll skin your hide...and make a hat when it's dry....

That first night, we carefully set the traps with canned cat food and pieces of meat. When the first light squeezed over the mountains, we were out looking to see if we'd caught the varmint. What we caught instead was our own shop cat and a chicken.

We set the traps again on night 2—and caught our other shop cat and a magpie. Night 3 and 4 were also magpies. Who even knew that magpies were out at night? Ten days later and the count was chickens 3, cats 2, magpies 5— skunks 0. I added another verse to my “Goodbye Skunk” song:

Dang near two weeks since the trapping started, and neither one of us was amused.

We had on Realtree camo, high-powered ammo, and no pole cat to shoot....

It wasn't til then, that I remembered how the real parody went. Two outdoorsmen, with their NRA cards (National Redneck Association) went off to shoot a 34 point buck. Just as they saw their biggest buck, a squirrel jumped onto their heads, and the shot went wild. That's when they decided the squirrel had to die. They went down to the local surplus store, bought a keg of dynamite. Two baseball bats and a case of M-80s—they were planning one heck of a fight.

But as one can guess, it was much like Elmer Fudd hunting Bugs Bunny, and the squirrel didn't die. I felt their frustration as we loaded up the traps with a better understanding of why “getting skunked” means losing!

It was a week of reactions that weren't what we intended, to situations that weren't what they seemed—basically just another typical week of life on a farm.