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.
