The Birthday Skunk

The Median* Birthday Skunk

 

Everytime we see a skunk, someone’s birthday is nigh.  Whether winter or spring or fall or summer, a skunk may lumber out of the shadows on any Montreal night.  Especially near the mountain. 

However, the last time I saw the birthday skunk was elsewhere, late at night, walking home.  We had just made it across the field that was maybe where Doctor Zhivago was filmed and were at the Lachine Canal, right on that little bridge over the inlet to the horse barns.  And out of the dark comes a big fat skunk onto the bridge.  Having learned why the chicken crossed the road, it was all too easy to guess why the skunk was crossing the bridge.  The skunk was right here, deep in the critique of pure reason, to answer the question too. 

Maybe we were not paying attention and thought the animal was a fat cat with short legs or a raccoon with a small head so we walked out onto the bridge rather impetuously.  Resolving the white racing stripes, though, we stopped in midstep close to the middle with about nine feet of no-man’s-land.  The birthday skunk didn’t heed us at first either, or maybe expected the right of way, and stopped in a huff. 

For a minute and a half we all paused, gauging up who was going to yield the bridge.  Slowly, we started to back up and skunk looked right and then looked left.  Skunk raised up that famous tail to indicate something, not sure what.  Skunk turned tail but, defying the phrase, did not run.  Sunk waived that tail.  We took another step back and noted a leeward position.  Skunk looked over at us with a deep gaze, a penetrating stare projecting from black emotional eyes, a haughty look that dared us to not fly away like pigeons in front of a train.  Skunk was about to take the bridge.

But here is what I’m thinking right then:  How much shame would incur, running away from a skunk as our forefathers did for eons and their forefathers before them?  And how much honor would come from facing that skunk and collecting the toll due to mankind, mankind whom dug that canal and engineered that bridge over?  Either way, lots and lots. 

In lieu, to wit, I stepped forward and the skunk bounced up and down twice, like a basketball, on nimble hindquarters then waddled off the bridge.  We pursued cautiously.  Skunk was lingering there at the end corner so we cut a wide turn.  But I wanted to get closer and interview the skunk for some post-game analysis or maybe to just remind that skunk that they still stink. 

On tip-toes, approaching I felt like a gladiator and the skunk felt like a mighty skunk.  The skunk took one last look and with a wrinkled nose rumbled into the bush and away. 

No spray.

*not to be confused with mediocre, mediocre being a different word.