HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Tail tale

Skunks are not dangerous in the usual ways: they don’t bite or scratch or sting. When threatened, all they do is turn away, raise up their big, fluffy tails and squirt their victim with a jet of stinky liquid. But the smell is reportedly awful enough that even grizzly bears back away from the small, black-and-white striped animal. So when I open my eyes and see a young skunk sniffing inquisitively at my face, the only thought in my head is: this might be a good time to die. It seems especially helpful that I’m already in a hearse. I shut my eyes and lie very still.

I can hear Bins and Birk consulting one another in whispers but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Presently I hear them moving about. The hearse wobbles a bit, as its large back doors are opened, there’s a faint rustling. After a longish pause, I get the sense of Birk’s huge arm stretching over me, followed by the scent of salami. Then I hear excited snuffles from the skunk, followed by happy chewing sounds right in front of my nose. Before I can decide that the feeding has grown a little too cosy for comfort, I hear Bins call the all clear. “Skunk secured!” he says to me. “You can get up now!”

I open my eyes and am relieved to see an absence of scent-ejecting mammals. I’m still moving slowly and carefully, just in case it might be hiding under my elbow or inside my bra (who can say what these feral skunks might get up to?) when I turn to see Bins and Birk wreathed in soppy smiles. They’re gazing at the black, fluffy creature now lying in Bins’ arms. “He’s SO CUTE!” coos Birk while Bins murmurs, “... ‘oo’s Daddy’s liddle widdle skunky-punky, huh?”

I begin spluttering “How —? What —?” Because I’ve never heard of anyone befriending one of these temperamental little squirters. When Bins finally notices me, he says in his most isn’t-it-obvious? tone, “I’m holding his tail down! He can’t spray!” It turns out that Birk, in one of his many avatars, worked for a humane pest-control company. That’s where he learnt of skunk traps which cleverly prevented the tail being raised, while causing no harm to the owner. So while Birk distracts the skunk with a piece of meat, Bins reaches in from the behind, grabs the tail and scoops up the critter. End of story. The newly christened Punky settles down without further ado.

We all climb back into the car. Birk drives, while Bins holds Punky asleep in his arms. The tail has been neatly tied with a piece of twine to one of his back legs, “In case he has a nightmare,” says Bins, “and sprays me by mistake.” We speed along the grey ribbon of highway, debating the perils of skunk family life and the politics of stench. “If you had to choose a stink for yourselves,” I ask, “what would it be?” “Rotting jackfruit,” says Bins. “Dead seals,” says Birk. “Angry skunk,” I say, “and I hope we never smell one.”

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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