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by Adriana Maxwell |
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All right. I’ve had just a little too much Chardonnay at my friend’s guest house, but what’s a girl to do? In sleepy Niagara-on-the-Lake at two a.m., leaving the car where it is and walking seven blocks is the right thing to do. It’s a safe and quiet town and somehow it is all a neighbourhood feeling. September brings warm winds off the lake that cleans the downtown’s daily accumulation right out. The warm winds also bring a feeling that fall is not far off, and jackets will be welcome friends in just a month. But tonight it is just me, the wind, King Street, and the small furry black and white rodent out front of the Hepburn house. The critter is not unexpected. It is skunk season and this has been a summer of skunks. For some reason, the very unscientific research I’ve been doing suggests that the skunk population has exploded. The two living out back under a summer cottage had five babies, and the dock area community earned it’s name of the past one hundred years as ‘skunk hollow’ by watching the cute little critters grow through adolescence, even to the point of feeding them peanuts. A rogue skunk lives by the Whale inn, and presumably sleeps through the weddings held in the park gazebo. I refer to him as rogue because he didn’t find a mate this year, not because he is aggressive. He is just trying to get by as a skunk, like all the others. They aren’t malicious, and have made peace with the locals. They don’t spray unless they are attacked or startled. They just want to root for food in the lawns and seek out the peanuts that are left behind by negligent squirrels and jays. The locals have made peace with the skunks. We try not to startle them. We make noise before our paths cross and they amble away. Startling them doesn’t make sense, not that this town is known for an abundance of sense. We have lively and spirited conversations over the fences about whether the black and white buddies will be out in the afternoon, how far their spray can effectively go (and the wag who is also a sailor adds the “upwind or downwind?” dimension). We’ve settled on twenty feet either way. I clap my hands like a crazy lady and shout, “hey you, hey you, hey you, beat it, beat it, beat it”. He shoots his tail up, looks around, ready to shoot. I’m outside twenty paces and he does what good skunks do, and clears the sidewalk. I’m embarrassed by the noise I’m making in this sleepy small town at two a.m., but I have balanced the neighbours quiet enjoyment with the risk of smelling rather awful in Niagara’s restaurants for the next week. Niagara’s restaurants are safe. I wonder what the B&B guests in the Hepburn house are thinking. My neighbour’s cat, ‘Goofy’ is already an unwitting accomplice. While the neighbour lazed in his hammock by the river, he reached down to pet the cat. The cat wasn’t, but seemed to enjoy the attention until his owner looked down to find Pepe Le Pew at the end of his hand, enjoying the gentle affection. The neighbour did the right thing by ceasing to pet the skunk. My other neighbour found how industrious the babies can be. He heard a noise in the kitchen of his cottage. When he opened the cupboard under the sink, he found five of them all with butts in the air and face down tearing into a bag of cat food. They had dug a way in along the water pipes. He closed the door and went back to watching the television. Sometimes discretion is a wonderful thing. The next member of the smelly gauntlet is rooting in front of the Prince of Wales. I wonder if his ancestors were here rooting around in 1973 when Queen Elizabeth visited. I’m sure that the Queen had people to run ahead of her shouting, “hey you, hey you, hey you, beat it, beat it, beat it”. I didn’t have my own people, and felt rather un-queenly flapping my arms and yelling, well outside the twenty foot “line of stench”. It doesn’t matter that nobody can see you at two a.m. They MIGHT! The Prince of Wales management might have to decide if there is a skunk problem or a drunk problem. I hope they didn’t see my face. I got by a couple of the furry monochromes rooting by St. Mark’s parsonage. They were too heads down in the turf to notice me, and I was able to skirt the twenty foot clearance with lots to spare. I was tired of yelling and was ready to sing something a capella. Perhaps Oh Canada! would do it, or something by Shania. After four encounters, I’m clearly losing my shyness. Rounding the corner, I’m in familiar territory. I know about the rogue near the Whale Inn. I know that the family of nine out back are pet-able. I know my neighbour is not likely tossing peanuts out the door to attract them, and I know that I don’t have to cross the vicious, scary and largest skunk known to man that usually stands at the corner of Ball Street. I am ready to sing, “I Did it My Way”, but they don’t give me the pleasure.
Adriana Maxwell lives in Niagara-on-the-Lake and walks softly and carries a big schtick.
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