When my ex-boss at Tyson’s, Jerry Delozier’s, boys were teenagers, they discovered a skunk with a litter of kits under the slats in their breeder hen house. The slats were in ten foot by two foot sections. These slats were nailed on 2 by 6 runners and lined up the chicken house for the hens to get up on, with a scratch area in the center.
At the discovery of the invaders, his oldest son Terry went to the house, got his dad’s good Remington shotgun, loaded it and went back to the hen house. Very simply, the boy stuck the barrel between the boards on the front, aimed and delivered momma skunk and her kits to heaven.
I heard the rest of the story later from his unhappy brother, Mike. “Terry not only got rid of the skunk family, he shot the main waterline coming in the hen house. And it was no fun removing the slats, then getting in all that muddy chicken manure and skunk mess fixing the water break because by the time we got it shut off there was a flood.”
When I first came to Arkansas in 1960, I taught science in high school. The second year I taught at Winslow, a boy came in late to class. It was winter time, and we had steam heat. The girls were soon gagging at the odor. I asked Buddy why he was late, amused at the whole thing.
“Well, Mr. Richards, I run my trap line every day before I come to school and this morning, I was running it and saw I had a skunk caught in one of them, but he was looking the other way. I use a little ball bat to dispatch of them so I don’t make bullet holes in the hide. That skunk, he was sure looking the other way. I crept up on him like an Indian. But bam, I was ready to hit him in the head and he must have discovered me cause he sprayed the fire out of me.”
I was laughing so hard I was crying. Every girl and half the guys were acting like they were sick from the loud aroma. I sent Buddy to the office for a pass to go home and change clothes. Later that day in study hall, even after two showers and clean clothes, he still smelled pretty skunky.
Mowing hay that next summer with a sickle bar mower and a team of mules, they stampeded once, leaving me about half asleep sitting on the iron seat. What was the matter with them, I wondered, hauling them to a stop. But soon the strong aroma of the skunk reached my nose.
I didn’t bother to check on the source, me and the mules, we just left that patch standing and mowed at a distance. The man who owned the place asked me later why I didn’t mow it all. I said, “You go clear that stinking skunk out, and I’ll mow it.” He shook his head and said, “That’ll be fine.”
Most folks don’t know, but the basis for perfumes is the scent of the skunk. They actually use the glands of the skunk to get this secretion. Now, I know little about the manufacturing process of perfume, but they must not need much to make big batches. They refer to it, in the business, as skunk oil. How good the market is I don’t know, but my experience with them is I’d rather leave the job of collecting it to someone else.
I’ve been stinking up this column long enough. I have had several readers share experiences with me about their skunk stories. But the best story was about the boy, Johnny, who came late to school one day and the teacher asked him why he was late for class.
Johnny said, “It was the dog’s fault.”
“How was that?” the teacher asked.
“My family has been losing chickens to a varmint. Dad, in his night shirt, woke me up last night and said something was in the hen house. He had his shotgun and gave me the flashlight. We crept up on the coop and he said, ‘you open the door and shine that light inside. We’ve got to be fast.’
“I threw open the door and shined the light, and Dad was bent over in his short night gown, and then our hound, with his cold nose, came running up behind him and couldn’t stop in time. It made dad empty that shot gun.”
“Well, why are you so late for school?” the teacher asked.
“Cause I’ve been up all night dressing chickens that paw shot besides killing the skunk.”
Thanks for the joke. Watch out for them skunks.
Western novelist Dusty Richards and his wife Pat live on Beaver Lake in northwest Arkansas. For more information about his books you can email Dusty by visiting www.ozarksfn.com and clicking on ‘Contact Us’ or call 1-866-532-1960.
