One morning this spring my wife, Janet, glanced up from her newspaper to see a skunk ambling across our backyard. We’re accustomed to seeing all sorts of wildlife, but not skunks. She grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of it. That evening my daughters viewed the image and marvelled. It’s not every day you see a skunk, even on an LCD screen.

The next morning the skunk reappeared at exactly the same time and casually meandered around before disappearing through a crack in the fence into our neighbour’s yard. “Maybe we should do something about this,” Jan mused aloud.

“Nah,” I responded. “It’s probably just passing through.”

The skunk was back the following morning. And the next. . . . She was so regular you could set your watch by her. My daughters took to calling her Skunky. Not long after the words “pet skunk” crept into their conversation.“We definitely need to do something about this,” Jan would mutter darkly.

“Maybe she lives at the neighbour’s place,” I’d reply hopefully.

One morning Skunky didn’t show up at her appointed time. Two months passed with no further sightings. “Told you,” I’d say smugly. “She was just passing through.” Jan would just roll her eyes.

Two weeks ago Jan and I were looking through the living room window at a mysterious patch of shredded grass in our front yard when, lo and behold, Skunky sashayed into view. “I wonder where she’s been?” I said. Jan banged on the window. Skunky jumped in surprise and zipped down a hitherto-unnoticed hole near our front steps. Uh-oh. Jan turned to me with one eyebrow raised. That’s always a bad sign. “Just passing through, eh?”

“I’ll call pest control in the morning.”

The following evening I was in our living room when Skunky emerged from her den. I watched her scratch great big holes in our lawn in search of whatever it is skunks call supper. The next time I glanced up there were eight baby skunks cavorting on the grass. I nearly choked. The miniature black-and-white furballs were having a great time rolling around, chasing each other’s tails and pouncing like kittens. My youngest daughter noticed: “Ohmygodtheyresocute!” My other two daughters came running. Soon our whole family was crowded at the window watching the skunks play. They really were adorable.

“Don’t get too attached to them, girls,” I warned. “The guy from the pest control company is coming in a couple of days with a trap..”

“They’re not going to hurt them, are they dad?” the girls asked worriedly. “They’re so cute!”

“I don’t know what they do with skunks after they catch them. I’ll find out when I call.”

Zeke from the pest control agency said they drown skunks and policy forbade releasing them. My daughters were at the window watching the little skunks play “sniff my bum” when I broke the bad news. They were crushed. “We can’t let him kill them, dad! They’re just babies!” Tears began to well up in their eyes. I’m a total sucker when it comes to tears.

“OK, OK, I’ll tell you what—we’ll let him set the trap box for mom. I’ll catch the babies and set them all free.”

“Hooray!!”

Zeke set up the trap a few feet from the den the next morning. It was a metre- long rectangular box with an entrance at one end and sardines as bait at the other. When the skunk entered the box, her weight would make the trapdoor slide down. Somehow it seemed too obvious to actually work. “She’ll never fall for it,” I predicted confidently.

Around midnight Jan went out to investigate a rattling noise. Sure enough, Skunky was caught in the trap.

The next morning was scorching hot, so I moved the trap box to the backyard shed. After suiting up in old jeans, a T-shirt, coveralls, boots, goggles and a baseball cap, I tiptoed to the box and gingerly lifted it. I was half-expecting her to throw a fit and spray, but she remained calm.

I knew I had to catch the babies before their mother died in captivity. Every 30 minutes or so I checked to see if any of the kids had ventured out of the den. When they were all playing in the front yard, I raced to the garage to don my Captain Skunk outfit, got a big plastic Rubbermaid storage bin and stealthily snuck up on the gallivanting brood. My plan was to drop the upside-down bin on top of them, thereby catching them in one fell swoop. I figured that approach would also minimize my chances of getting sprayed. Unfortunately the little buggers hadn’t read my memo and weren’t playing in a tight rectangular formation. I was standing on the lawn trying to come up with a Plan B when one of them noticed me. She did a cartoony double-take and squeaked a warning. They all took one look at me and ran pell-mell for the den. I lunged and grabbed the last one as she was about to disappear down the hole. The poor thing was terrified. A small white spot near her bum area bulged. What the hell is that? Poof! Yeeech! Sulfur stink-fart! I dropped her in the bin and placed it in the shed beside the trap box. I then put my skunk-catching costume in the garage and took a very long shower.

The remaining skunks didn’t show their faces for the rest of the day. When the kids got home they all said, “Eeew! What’s that awful smell in the garage?”

I worked a graveyard shift that night. When I got home at 9 a.m. the first thing I did was feed Skunky and Slowpoke. I then brought my bedding and books to set up shop on the sofa near the window to keep an eye on the den. Whenever a skunk poked its little head out I’d put on my(increasingly stinky) gear. By the end of the day I considered myself lucky to have caught three. The following morning after my ER shift I went to feed the menagerie in the shed. The babies were fine, but the mother hadn’t touched her supper. When I shook her box there was no movement Was she curled up at the far end dying? The babies wouldn’t stand much of a chance if their mother died. I hurried back to my post in the living room.

By noon I had captured the rest of the litter. I put them all in the trap box with their mother, rolled down every window in my van and drove off in search of a forest. On my way out of town a police car pulled up beside me at a red light. If they caught a whiff of my extremely pungent vehicle they’d probably conclude I was some kind of deranged serial killer transporting body parts to the local dump. I tried to act casual.

Eventually I found a field adjacent to a good-size forest. I opened the box. None of them emerged. I approached the box cautiously and nudged it with my boot. Nothing. Hell! I picked it up and shook it vigorously. Skunky shot out like a bat out of hell and raced for the treeline. She stopped about 15 metres away and turned around to watch me warily. I gently shook the eight babies out, took a few steps back and waited for them to trundle off toward their mother. Instead, they all came toward me. I backed away some more, but they continued following me and making squeaking noises. Then it hit me. They want me to feed them again! I pulled the last tin of sardines out of my pocket, opened it and put the fish on the ground. Eight baby skunks huddled at my feet and had lunch. While they were busy eating I headed for the van.

Skunky strolled over to join her offspring.

Donovan Gray is a physician who works in Northern Ontario and in Winnipeg. He can be reached at 5grays@mts.net.