This Side of the Pond

One skunk is bad enough – a whole family is guarantee of a torturous summer.

Such is the position we are still attempting to extricate ourselves from, after weeks with squatters on our land.

Our first hint of infiltration was a direct spray to the face for the littlest dog on the land, who can fit into the sort of hidey hole that a skunk enjoys for a sleep.

Our second hint came a few nights later. We recently lost our outside cat to old age, but that hasn't stopped the largest of the parents-in-law's dogs from skulking around his nest, hoping to do glorious battle.

We don't know why she continues to do this, considering she has never once achieved her goal and there's not even a cat any more, but that's dog logic for you.

On that balmy evening, our own two dogs suddenly barked up a cacophony.

It's ok, I said, it's only Big Dog out in the yard. As I said this, the husband groaned. And at the very moment it occurred to me why he would do that, our living room was filled with the scent of skunk.

Big Dog slinked back off across the yard, hoping nobody had noticed. Unfortunately for her, the smell gave the game away and off to the bathroom she was dragged.

Meanwhile, we suffered through a night of trying not to breathe, thanking our lucky stars that the offending party must have been a juvenile. Our gratitude ran out when we realized that the air outside was clear, but the inside was still pungent enough to make you gag.

By this time, traps had been deployed and I had begun spending most afternoons explaining to one of our two dogs why she couldn't go inside it to investigate the bait. I did not need to have any such conversation with a skunk, because they ignored it completely.

Two raccoons we didn't even know were nearby enjoyed the trap snack, but no skunks.

Dad-in-law tried the time-honored method of wandering around the yard in the dark with a shotgun, but to no avail. It was an interesting way for the husband to wake up at 3 a.m. one night, though.

This continued for weeks, until, early one fateful morning, a skunk was spotted in plain view. Dad-in-law gave chase, but the skunk was quicker.

It dived underneath the cabin at the bottom of the yard and refused to come back out. Alerts were sent out that none of the dogs should be let into the yard for the rest of the day – or at least until the creature could be retrieved.

This advice was followed for a few hours, until the person who issued it forgot he'd ever said it. Two minutes later, Littlest Dog was gearing up for her second tomato juice bath of the summer.

It was clear that cohabitation was not going to be possible. I watched from my desk as dad-in-law began an investigation, which mostly involved laying on the grass with his head under the cabin and poking around with a stick.

The skunk, to nobody's surprise, did not feel like coming out.

Dad-in-law retreated to the deck, where I assumed he planned to stay until dusk.

He, however, ran out of patience before the sun did, so the husband got a call. Dad-in-law needed someone to be ready with the shotgun because he was under the optimistic impression he would be able to flush the skunk out.

We headed outside, where dad-in-law was waiting with an even longer stick. The plan appeared to be something along the lines of repeated poking until the skunk got fed up.

Considering how well this exact plan went for Littlest Dog, I realized that the only safe place to be was behind glass. I quietly retreated to the safety of the house and watched through the patio door, just in case I was needed.

I cannot imagine what I would have been needed for, but you never really know with a Pridgeon Project.

My new location lent a certain surreal air to the pandemonium in the yard.

I could understand why dad-in-law was laying half under the cabin with his feet sticking out and I knew why my husband was lurking nearby with a shotgun.

I did not, on the other hand, know why mom-in-law was suddenly present, or why she had brought the garden hose. Were we now to bathe the skunk, was that the new plan?

The skunk displayed impressive fortitude over the next hour, refusing to move a whisker out from the shadows, even though the stick had been poked at it from every conceivable direction.

At this point, mom-in-law had the shotgun. I don't know how that happened and I don't know where the hose went.

I do know that, after seeing what appeared to be a nose, mom-in-law took several shots, but our interloper was still alive and kicking. Dad-in-law was still mostly under the cabin, and so was the skunk.

Just as I was thinking that enough time had passed that we might as well go back to the original plan of waiting until dusk, dad-in-law got fed up again.

Despite the obvious risk, he decided to rid us of the skunk while it was still underneath the cabin.

This method did work – after a few tries, the skunk was no more. The stench is still hanging around, but at least the little urchin can't make more of it.

Mom-in-law then discovered markings on the edge of the cabin that she thought had been caused by raccoons chewing on the wood. We had to explain to her that this was, in fact, where one of her stray bullets ended up.

Consequently, she now has a new nickname: Granny Oakley.

We think we're now rid of the whole set of skunk interlopers, except for the mother skunk who put us in this position in the first place. She is still at large, somewhere up near the neighbor's house.

So far, she has been speedy enough to evade him. We hope to have more success before her next romantic encounter, which I'm pretty sure would put all of us off tomato juice for life.