We’ve lived in the fetid heart of skunk country our whole lives — without incident, until recently.
My wife Christina grew up north of Nashwauk and I was raised in the swamps of the Sax-Zim Bog, each of us well acquainted with skunks. In my case, the family junkyard was overrun with the striped stinkers. Time to time, a gunshot rang out from the shop out back. Then came the smell, first arriving faintly on the wind, then heavy on my dad’s overalls as he ducked in the back door of the trailer to clean up.
My father’s misjudgment came from the assumption that shooting a skunk prevents it from spraying its trademark stank juice. In reality, when that little stinker flies to Skunk Valhalla, he’s also pumping out his last round of nose noise. The same happens when skunks get hit by cars or chomped by a bigger critter. The latter rarely happens, because wolves, bears and badgers learn quick that it’s not worth it.
In fact, the only predator who reliably eats skunks is the great horned owl. Owls can’t smell, so they eat skunks like Pringles.
Skunk is a certain kind of smell. There’s nothing quite like it. It’s in the sulfur family, but more like the black sheep cousin doing 10-20 at Stillwater for something no one talks about. The smell of a dead skunk enters the cabin of an automobile like an olfactory ninja, dispatching air fresheners like inept castle guards.
Some say that marijuana smoke smells a great deal like skunk. As weed is legalized in more places for more uses, I’ve gotten more sniffs of it in recent years. For a long time, I wasn’t sure if the comparison was apt. I am now.
There are two tiers of skunk smell. The first level is the kind you smell in the woods or along the road. The second level, far more pungent and pot-like, burst through the back door with our little dog Daisy a few nights ago.
Daisy Dog, aka Daiser, aka Lazy Daisy, aka Crazy Daisy, is what our vet refers to as a “Mexican street dog.” Part chihuahua, part something else. Maybe terrier. Maybe goat. She has free run of a big fenced-in yard. She’s not so interested in leaving the fence, but a lot of animals, skunks included, like to sneak in.
We didn’t see what happened. I suppose our dog may have met Willie Nelson or a ska band somewhere in the dark that night. But the more logical answer is that she encountered one of those black-and-white striped stink weasels that have flourished in the milder temperatures these past two winters.
We’ve always wondered when the skunk encounter would happen. Christina bought a big jug of skunk wash several years ago in anticipation of this moment. It waited patiently in the linen closet like the old knight from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” We know when we reached for the bottle that we had chosen wisely.
Dogs possess a highly elevated sense of smell, which means that poor Daisy was overdosing on skunk spray. She offered no protest as we loaded her into the tub for the anti-skunk rub.
After a nighttime bath and another the next morning, followed by some perfume, Daisy smelled a little better. And yet, just under the pleasant-smelling surface, a faint odor of skunk lingered like an overplayed song on the Top 40.
My wife suggested that this must be what rapper and cultural icon Snoop Dogg smells like all the time. Pure speculation, of course.
We’re hoping Daisy learned her lesson about skunks. But hope cannot substitute for a plan. We’ve since refilled our skunk wash supply, ready for whatever comes next.
Aaron J. Brown is an author and college instructor from northern Minnesota’s Iron Range. He writes the blog MinnesotaBrown.com and co-hosts the podcast “Power in the Wilderness” on Northern Community Radio. This piece first appeared in the Saturday, Nov. 16, 2024 edition of the Mesabi Tribune.
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