The skunk will not leave my home.
This has created a situation similar to the siege of Carthage, where I am barricaded in my bathroom, unable to slip past my assaulting foe. Except, instead of sheltering in a grand city, I’m sitting on the toilet. And instead of besieging Romans, it’s a little black-and-white demon.
I’m not sure how the skunk got in. But as soon as it saw me, it charged, scuttling across the ground like a furry crab. I let out a yelp about two octaves above my normal speaking voice; then, in my preponderance of wisdom, retreated to the one room in the house that doesn’t have windows.
It does have a poster that Carly put up with a picture of a cellphone. A red X is superimposed over the phone. Big balloon words above and below the image say, “Be mindful. Shit still.” Carly was big on mindfulness and, coincidentally, full of shit. I should have taken the poster down months ago—I’ve never really liked it.
I had hoped the skunk would lose interest long enough for me to make a dash for the door or my phone, which I left in the bedroom. Instead, it has planted itself on the other side of the door and is scratching relentlessly at it. Every so often it whacks the door like a little, black-and-white battering ram. Each piece of paint that the skunk peels off the door would have been like a needle in Carly’s skin; she liked things just so. Thoughtfully, mindfully placed. Whereas I, according to her, am a tornado trapped inside a person. But one that is stuck in place, chaos that never moves on.
I grab the edge of the poster, determined to tear it from the wall. Then hesitate. What would I put in its place? Part of me feels like it’s better to have something I dislike, rather than nothing at all.
I let go of the poster and face the door. I’ve been trapped in here too long. If the skunk won’t leave, I just need to accept the fact that I’m going to get sprayed. I brace myself for the inevitable and yank open the door.
The skunk stops scratching. It stares at me, its eyes twin black orbs, intently focused. I stare at it, wondering if I should try to grab it or slip past the creature. Then it scampers into the bathroom and bonks its head against my leg. I freeze.
The skunk winds itself around my legs like a cat would. Does it want me to pet it? I’d rather not. It doesn’t seem afraid of me—though the feeling is definitely not mutual. I could try to throw a towel over it, but then it would probably freak out and spray me. Best to go with a gentler approach.
I inch towards the front door, careful not to move too quickly or make any loud noises. The skunk follows me, moving in a lopsided waddle like a boat swaying on the tide. I make it all the way to my goal without getting sprayed, which seems like a minor miracle. I open the front door and hold a hand out like a tour guide, pointing to astonishing vistas. The skunk smells the air, snorts, and then scampers deeper into my house.
“Damnit,” I grumble. I leave the front door open, just in case the skunk decides to let itself out. I get my phone, briefly going through the people I could text with the news: There’s a skunk in my house, WTF! But the person I would normally text is Carly. Since I can’t text her, it doesn’t seem worth the trouble to reach out to anyone else.
I set up for work—I’ve got one of those post-COVID, remote deals going. Not bad. Not great. I try my hardest to ignore the occupying force in my home. Eventually, it will get bored and leave. I just need to wait. Things will change if you just wait them out.
###
The skunk will not leave my home.
It opened all of the cabinets in my kitchen, even the silverware drawer on my island. I don’t know how it got on top of the island. Skunks can’t jump like cats, making its ability to appear in places it shouldn’t be pseudo-mystical.
The skunk’s pilfering of my cabinets is actually pretty impressive. I saw it open a few. For the drawers, it wraps its tiny paws around the handle and pulls them out, effortlessly. The larger doors are harder. It has to stand on its hind legs and grab the knob, then totter back like a performer on stilts. It noses into the gap between the door and its frame before it shuts completely.
After opening all my cabinets, the skunk took the following items and arranged them in the center of the floor in this order: Hershey’s Chocolate bars, marshmallows (left over from last year’s failed camping trip), dried cranberries, honey-glazed almonds. It tore each package open with brutal efficiency and is now eating her ill-gotten gain.
“You’re a little land pirate,” I grumble. I lean against the counter, sipping coffee and watching the skunk. I drink too much coffee. Usually, by mid-afternoon, I enter an alternate state of reality induced by my excessive caffeine intake; I like to call it the Mocha Haze. It strikes me that the skunk hasn’t had any water. I fill a bowl and put it next to its stash.
“You know, we can’t live like this,” I tell the skunk as it laps water from the bowl. “You’re going to have to leave.”
The skunk stops drinking, raises its front legs, and stomps at me. Its paws slap the floor with surprising force, the little thing more powerful than I first thought.
“I don’t think that’s very polite.”
The skunk snorts and scrambles on top of its mound of food. It lies down, curling around the objects like a dragon guarding its hoard, and falls asleep.
I tiptoe up to the skunk, watching its back rise and fall. Its nose wiggles, and it reaches a paw up to scratch at it. I reach my hands out, gingerly placing one on each side of the skunk. If I’m very careful, I might be able to remove it from the house without waking it up.
This is, of course, a profound folly.
I start to lift the skunk. It opens one eye and glares at me. The skunk makes a chittering sound that is very clearly a threat. We stare at each other for a second. “Sorry,” I whisper, gently lowering the skunk back onto its hoard. It goes back to sleep without further incident.
I sigh, weighing my options. If the skunk won’t leave, I’m just going to have to call an expert.
###
I have decided that the skunk is a lady. Two things made me come to this conclusion. The first is the skunk’s general air of grace. On the one hand, it’s true that she waddles when she’s walking, which isn’t exactly graceful. But her climbing is preternatural. She has gone up and down almost every surface in my house with the aplomb of a gymnast.
The second is her eyelashes. They’re full, curling at the ends, and practically scream lady lashes. The reason I’ve seen the skunk’s eyelashes so close is that she keeps climbing on top of my keyboard and staring at me. She takes special joy in tapping the keys on my keyboard over and over with her paws—I think she likes the clacking sound they make.
The doorbell rings. For an instant, I’m transported back to that moment when I last heard the doorbell chime. That moment is imprinted on me, a scar upon my soul. It’s strange how a sound or smell can plunge you back into a memory, your own sense forming a prison of association.
I shake away the memory and head for the door. I was worried I would have to wait until tomorrow for the wildlife removal specialist. But they were able to get someone out by 7 p.m. It’s good timing. I just finished eating dinner. The skunk watched me the entire time, curious, but not interfering as I first cooked, then feasted. The nutty smell of sesame permeated the air, Skunk sniffing with interest as if trying to puzzle out what the scent could be.
I open the door, revealing… aw, shit.
“Margot?” I’m so astonished my mouth hangs open like a broken drawbridge.
“Leo.” Margot looks different than when I last saw her, but in the best kind of way. Before, we were kids who hadn’t grown into ourselves physically or emotionally. Since then, Margot has grown. I notice it first in the way she stands. She used to shrink from the world as if it might lash out at any moment. Now, she owns the space around her. I envy that posture of confidence.
In one hand, Margot has a rectangular, wire trap. In the other, a large phone. Her eyes dart to the phone, scanning the information there. “Crap. I didn’t even check the first name. Do you want me to call someone else to take care of your pest?”
“Don’t be silly,” I say reflexively. “Come on in. Unless you’re uncomfortable?”
“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly. She steps into my home. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She used to wear it loose, with bangs. Those are gone now, which actually makes her face more open, accessible in a way she didn’t used to be. “So, where’s the problem?”
I point to the kitchen. “Little devil’s in there.”
“Let’s see what we can do, then.” Margot marches forward, the trap swinging by her side. I trail after, intrigued and a little uncomfortable.
“What’s the plan?”
“Going to set up the trap and wait,” Margot says, simply. She kneels down and starts fiddling with the wire contraption.
“It won’t hurt her, right?”
Margot shakes her head. “It’s a live trap. We stock it, then wait for the animal to take the bait. There’s a pressure plate inside. Once she steps on that, the trap will spring shut.”
“I know how live traps work.” I don’t. I’m not even sure why I say I do. “Where’s the bait?”
“You got a can opener?” Margot pulls a can of tuna from her jacket pocket.
“And here I was hoping to get out of this without making my house smell like a dumpster,” I grumble as I fetch the can opener.
With a few quick twists, Margot has the can open and in the live trap. “Now, we wait.”
“Won’t she spray us once we trap her?”
Margot shakes her head. “I’ll wait until it’s asleep, then I’ll throw a cover over the top of the cage. The skunk probably won’t spray if it can’t see anything.” I feel like that’s a big probability.
We watch the trap for a while in silence. Skunk does not seem interested in entering it. Probably because she just ate her weight in marshmallows.
“You want to sit?” I ask Margot, not sure if I should act like a customer with a contractor or host with an old friend.
“Sure.” She shrugs. We make our way to the living room. I’m suddenly self-aware of how old my couches are. They sag in strange places and have enough differently colored stains on them that someone might think I was trying to make an art piece. How long has it been since I got them? I probably should have changed them out by now.
“How’ve you been?” Margot asks, settling onto the end of one of the couches. I sit on the other couch, in the center. I could be closer to her, at the intersection of the lines made by the couches, our knees almost touching. But that feels too intimate.
“I’ve been good.” It’s an automatic response; the expected echo to the question.
“Except for the skunk.”
“Yeah. Except for that. What about you?”
She considers the question. Something in my chest tightens because of that, the feeling not entirely unpleasant. “It’s been interesting. I went to school, got a degree that I didn’t realize I didn’t like until senior year.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. A little late for a course correction at that point. I bounced around for a couple years, and now I’m here.” She twists a loose strand of hair in her finger, over and over. She used to do that when she was nervous.
“What was your degree in: Veterinary Science?”
She leans forward, conspiratorially. “Pre-law.”
I let out a laugh. “I could have told you that wouldn’t work. You’ve always liked hands-on work. Sitting still, pouring over briefs would drive you insane.”
“I know, I know.” She holds her hands up in mock defense. “It was one of those things where people pushed me towards it so much that I felt like it must be the right choice. ‘Your grades are so good, honey. You should go to law school like your aunt.’ It was stupid, but I kind of let them put me in a box I had no business being in. Less square peg, round hole; more like a square peg trying to splinter itself enough to fit through a colander.” Her hands are resting comfortably at her side. No more twisting.
“I’m glad you found something that fits better. Assuming this does.”
“It does.” She smiles. I envy her ability to change course, escaping the trap she found herself in. It’s true that it was one of her own making. But aren’t most of them?
“What about you? How’s…” She trails off. It isn’t because she forgot Carly’s name. Probably just because she doesn’t want to say it. Neither do I.
“We’re not together anymore,” I say. The echo of a memory hits me, the doorbell ringing. My hand reaches for the knob. It’s sweating already because I know in some transcendent space within myself that opening the door will be an ending.
“I’m sorry.” That’s the expected reply to my statement. I wonder if Margot means it. “Where you working these days?” She says quickly, trying to leave the discomfort of Carly’s memory behind.
“Same place,” I admit.
“I thought you hated insurance.”
“I don’t hate it. I’ve applied for some other jobs, but, you know, none of them felt right.” This is what I often tell myself, so it’s easy to parrot aloud, the act of repetition creating reality. My job isn’t great, it’s true. I don’t enjoy it, most of the time. Or at any time. But it lets me work from home, and it pays well enough. If I change course, the next thing might be worse. Then I’m stuck.
Besides, I don’t have a clear direction. Margot loves animals and being active. That leads to pretty clear career options. Carly enjoys strategy and introspection. She’s a perfect fit as a financial analyst. But I don’t seem to fit anywhere; not easily, at any rate.
The trap slams shut.
“Success!” Margot says, hopping to her feet. She’s almost too chipper, as if trying to buoy me with her joy. She marches towards the kitchen, then grinds to a halt.
“What is it?” I ask, rising. But then I see it. There, huffing like a locomotive, is the skunk. On the wrong side of the trap.
“How’d you do that?” Margot says, a vague hint of wonder in her voice.
The skunk, not one to answer questions, charges her. Margot, to her credit, doesn’t yell like I did when the skunk charged me. She’s probably conditioned to remain calm around animals. But she does backpedal quickly. She hits the couch and trips, landing on the cushion with a thud.
The skunk stops a few feet in front of her, whirls around, and lifts its butt. It looks like my house is about to smell like tuna and skunk. Perfect.
I know that this is one of the hazards of Margot’s line of work. She’s paid to handle these sorts of situations. Despite that, I feel like I need to do something.
In what is, without a doubt, the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life, I step between Margot and the skunk. I’m not sure how skunk spray works. I might not actually prevent Margot from getting hit, but I’ll at least try.
I’m not someone who steps in between things often. When the doorbell rang, all those months ago, I opened the door and saw a man on the other side. He had a rugged handsomeness that I envied, his flannel shirt and manicured beard giving him a lumberjack vibe. But he stood awkwardly, reminding me of a kid who knows he’s about to get in trouble.
“Can I help you?” I asked. I kept my hand on the door, ready to slam it shut at the first sign of aggression.
“Leo Bernard?” He asked, his eyes on the ground.
“That’s me.”
“Uh…” There was a long pause. Finally, the stranger looked up, his gaze apologetic. “Carly and I have kind of been seeing each other. For a while.”
I didn’t react. I didn’t even flinch at the words. It was like my brain short-circuited, unable to process the information. This wasn’t happening—couldn’t be happening.
“She sent me to get her stuff,” the man continued, once he realized I wasn’t going to say anything. “I told her that she should do it. But…” he trailed off, shrugging helplessly.
Damnit. I kind of felt bad for him. “But what did I do?” I said, at last, after a silence that stretched almost into eternity. “I haven’t done anything.”
“I’m real sorry.” The man scratched the back of his neck. “If you need time, I can come back. Could get Carly.”
“No.” I didn’t want to see Carly. I knew it was over. And the reason why had been in the question I asked. I stepped aside.
Now, I personify the in-between. Margot behind me, the skunk before me.
Skunk strains. I wait for the repugnant odor to fill the air. But nothing happens. She gives a little grunt, trying again, to no avail.
“She’s shooting blanks,” Margot exclaims, relief clear in her voice.
“My skunk’s defective.” I sit next to Margot, shaking my head in bemusement. “Do you think she was born like this?”
Margot shakes her head. “More likely, her scent glands were surgically removed.”
“They can do that?” The skunk lowers her bottom, then scrambles up onto the couch. She puts her paws on my leg, tentatively, and stares at me with her inscrutable black eyes. I’m slightly less scared of her now that I know she can’t spray, but still not entirely comfortable with a wild animal on my lap.
“She was probably someone’s pet,” Margot says. She reaches a hand out and scratches the top of the skunk’s nose. It burrows its head into her palm. “No collar. My guess is she was abandoned. But I’ll have the shelter put a notice out, just in case.”
I’m keenly aware of how close Margot is to me. A closeness I haven’t felt since we were together. One I certainly never felt when I was with Carly—especially at the end.
“The shelter?” I echo. Tentatively, I scratch the skunk’s back. Her fur is a little oily, more like touching a dog than a cat, but nice. I bury my hand into her fur, intertwining my fingers with the soft hairs, relishing the contact. I always wanted a dog or a cat, but Carly wasn’t keen on pets. Why didn’t I get one after she left?
“I can’t release her into the wild,” Margot explains. “Without her scent glands, she has no defense. But she’s a sweetheart. If her owners don’t show up, someone will probably adopt her. Come on.” Margot scoops the skunk up into her arms. It gives her an irritated look, displaying more emotion than I would expect from a skunk.
I stand. “I’ll grab your trap, since your hands are full.”
“Thanks,” Margot says, with a half-smile. She starts for her truck, and I follow.
Once we reach the curb, I say something that surprises even me. “You know, I could hold onto the skunk for a while. Just until you find her owners.”
Margot raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
I’m not usually sure about anything. When Carly finally called to officially break things off with me, she said I was the human equivalent of a play’s intermission. But I’m sure about this.
“Yeah.” I hold my arms out. Margot shrugs, then deposits the skunk into my outstretched arms. She’s surprisingly light.
“Bat season is coming up. They can fit through gaps as small as a penny—did you know that?”
“Not super up on my bats,” I say, scratching Skunk behind the ear.
Margot reaches into her pocket and pulls out a business card. She holds it out to me. “Just in case you have any more pests.”
“Your personal card. I’m honored.” I take the card. I imagine, briefly, a reality where I had made different choices, where Margot and I never disconnected. I don’t let myself imagine it for long.
“See you,” Margot says, the words less like a perfunctory farewell and more like a promise. I think of the doorbell ringing; how the doleful sound signaled the death of a relationship. For the first time, the sound means something else to me.
I wave as Margot drives away. Skunk drums her paws on my arm. She wants to go back inside.
“If a bat does get in the house, we’ll have to call the wildlife removal specialist,” I whisper to Skunk. She gives me a suspicious stare. She’s nobody’s fool.
I set Skunk down, making a mental list of all the supplies I will need to purchase for her. A litter box is at the top of the list. I go about my life. Later, I notice shredded paper on the bathroom floor. It’s Carly’s poster; the one I never really liked. Skunk must have ripped it down. I’m not sure how she reached it. But she regularly appears in unexpected places; the power of her presence verges on the mystical.
