In the Montana plains where I grew up, skunks were often smelled but seldom seen. Driving on a summer evening in the hours after a hot day, the cool air proving a welcome respite from the heat. Suddenly the delightful gentle scent of wild roses would be replaced with an acrid nose-scrunching odor and everybody in the car would say "Skunk!" "Glad we did not run over it." "Feel sorry for the people who did; their car will stink for a long time."

One of the most memorable encounters our family had with the black and white critter was one winter when my Grandmother's hen house was repeatedly raided by a skunk. We lost one of our best layers and many eggs. She had new shoes, the fruit of a trip to a town 50 miles away and a whole day of shopping. When she heard the chickens squawking, she went out to the hen house with a flashlight and a shovel. It was a dark night. Skunks do not like surprises, and we had to bury her new shoes. Tomato juice, vinegar, soda, nothing worked. The next week my uncle spent a couple of days making the hen house more secure and the raids ended.

Later that year, in the winter, my Grandma woke me at about 3 a.m. She took me to the kitchen window and warned me to be quiet. In the yard outside the hen house was a surreal scene. A full moon, about a foot of new snow, and a regal skunk with his tail floating on the moonlit air, prancing as if he was king of the world. I am not sure if I was more impressed by the skunk or my Grandmother's ability to appreciate such beauty, and share it with me even if it meant waking me in the middle of the night.

Another incident that happened at my Great Grandpa's house is one I will never forget. A skunk had been terrorizing Grandpa's chickens, and he was fed up. He had cornered it under the porch leading into the kitchen side of the house, and he had a loaded shotgun in his hands, pure rage on his face. My Grandma was always respectful to her father, so she was careful with her words. "Pa," she shouted, "Think about this!" "Think about what you are doing." He listened and put the gun away, much to everybody's relief.

I seldom get a whiff of skunk odor these days, but whenever I do, I just can't help smiling.

Learn more about this author, Hanna M. Jagow.
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