“Just passing through, eh?”

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

The pest control company said they’d be out to set a trap in a few days.

The following evening I was updating a family photo album in our living room when Skunky emerged from her den. For several minutes I watched her scratch great big holes in our lawn in search of whatever it is skunks call supper. Eventually I got bored and returned to my picture sorting. The next time I glanced up there were eight baby skunks cavorting on the grass in front of our garden. I nearly choked. The miniature black-and-white furballs were having a rollicking good time chasing one another’s tails, pouncing like kittens and rolling around on their backs. Alanna noticed me gaping and wandered over to see what was going on. “Ohmygodthey’resocute!” Ellen and Kristen came running. Soon our whole family was crowded at the window watching the skunks play. They really were adorable. Whenever one of them strayed too far from the den’s entrance their mother would shoo them back to safety. Once she even picked up one of the more adventurous babies by the scruff of his neck and carried him to the hole.

“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 to catch the mother. I’ll have to call him back tomorrow to let him know there are babies now, too.”

“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.”

“Hi, my name’s Donovan Gray. I called recently about getting rid of a skunk living under our front steps.”

“Oh yeah, I remember. Name’s Zeke. I’ll be out with a trap first thing in the morning.”

“There’s been a new development – she had a bunch of babies. Can you catch them too?”

“Sure, no problem. Cost ya extra, though.”

“That’s okay. Listen, what do you do with them after they're caught?”

“Drown ‘em.”

“Oh.”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“My kids have sort of bonded with the skunks, especially the babies. Can I pay extra to have them all released in a forest somewhere?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Against comp’ny policy.”

“Can you make an exception? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Nope. Sorry. See ya tomorrow.”

My daughters were at the window watching the octet 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! There has to be something we can do!” Tears welled up in their eyes. I’m a total sucker when it comes to tears.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you what – we’ll let him set the trap box for the mother, then when we’ve got her I’ll catch the babies myself and set them all free in a forest.”

“Huzzah!”

Zeke set up the trap a few feet from the den the following morning. It was basically a three-foot long rectangular box with an entrance at one end and a see-saw plank on the bottom. Sardines were placed at the far end. When the skunk smelled the bait and entered the box, her weight would make the plank tilt, which would then cause the trapdoor to slide down and seal the entrance. Somehow it seemed far too obvious to actually work.

“She’ll never fall for it,” I predicted confidently at supper that evening.

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

The next morning was scorching hot and the weather geeks were forecasting a high of 32 degrees Celsius. I didn’t want our new ward to die of heat exhaustion, so I decided to move the trap box to the shed in our backyard. After suiting up in a T-shirt, old jeans, coveralls, boots, goggles and a baseball cap, I tiptoed to the box and gingerly lifted it. I had envisioned her throwing a fit and spraying, but she remained calm. Once she was safely ensconced in the shed I went to the house and got some sardines and water. The trap box had a small latched opening on top that I presumed could be used to feed the animal inside. When I opened it, Skunky stuck her nose out and sniffed. It gave me quite a scare. I tossed the sardines in, poured her a cupful of water and hastily closed the latch.

I knew I had to catch the babies before their mother died in captivity. Every 30 minutes or so I went to the living room window to see if any of them had ventured out of the den. When I checked at noon they were all playing in the front yard. I ran to the garage and changed into my Captain Skunk costume. I then got a big plastic Rubbermaid storage bin and stealthily snuck up on the gallivanting brood. My plan was to drop the bin upside-down on top of them, thereby catching all or at least most of them in one fell swoop. I also figured that approach would minimize my chances of getting sprayed. Unfortunately, the little buggers hadn’t read my memo that morning and they weren’t playing in a tight rectangular formation. If I tried trapping them under the bin I’d only catch two or three at most, plus there was a high likelihood that at least one of them would get squashed by the rim.

I was standing on the lawn trying to come up with an alternate plan when one of baby skunks noticed me. To my surprise, she did a cartoony double-take and then squeaked a warning to the group. They all took one look in my direction and started running pell-mell for the den entrance. I lunged at them and managed to grab the last one just as she was about to escape down the hole. The poor thing was scared stiff. A small white spot near her bum area bulged. What in tarnation is that? Poof! Yecch! Sulphur-stink fart! I dropped her in the bin and placed it in the shed beside the trap box. I then put my skunk-catching outfit in the garage and took a very long shower.

The remaining skunks didn’t show their faces for the rest of the day. When Jan and the kids got home at 4:30 that afternoon they all said: “Eeew! What’s that horrible smell in the garage?”

I moved my skunk-wear from the garage to the shed.

I worked a graveyard shift that night. When I got home at 9:00 in the morning the first thing I did was feed Skunky and Slowpoke. After that I brought my bedding to the living room and set up shop on the sofa near the window so I’d be able to keep an eye on the den entrance. Whenever a skunk poked its little head out I’d put on my (increasingly stinky) duds and try to grab it. Most times I came back empty-handed, because they were getting smarter with each encounter. By the end of the day I considered myself lucky to have caught three more.

The following morning I went to feed the menagerie in the shed. The babies were fine, but Skunky hadn’t touched her supper. When I shook the trap box there was no movement inside. The way the device was constructed it was impossible to see the animal within unless it happened to be sitting directly below the latched opening. I tried using a flashlight, but I still couldn’t see her. Was she prone at the far end of the box, listlessly knocking on heaven’s door? The babies wouldn’t stand much of a chance if their mother died. I hurried back to my post in the living room.

By mid-afternoon 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 truck and drove off in search of the closest backwoods. On my way out of town a police car pulled up beside me at a red light. If they caught a whiff of my exceedingly pungent vehicle they’d probably conclude I was some kind of deranged serial killer transporting body parts to the local dump. I whistled an Ozark Mountain banjo tune and tried to act casual.

Eventually I found a suitable location. It was a field adjacent to a medium-sized forest out in the middle of nowhere. I parked by the roadside and retrieved the box from the back of the truck. After hiking to the edge of the forest I put it on the ground and tied a 20-foot string to the trapdoor. I then yanked on the string from a safe distance and waited for the skunks to come tearing out. None of them emerged. I inched a bit closer and looked. The door was wide open. What was the problem? Surely they couldn’t all have died during our drive out to the boonies.