the most prolific carrier of rabies

I know more about skunks than I should.

I know they like dog food.

They supposedly don't like srong odors.

They don't want to spray you, and they have to wait about 10 days between sprays.

They're most active on nights when the moon is most full (Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights this week).

Males will travel 6 to 8 miles to get a piece of you-know-what.

They're crepuscular.

During mating season, they give off a scent that's different than their spray.

They only live about 3 years because they become road kill more often that not.

They're near sighted.

They have skeletal systems similar to most rodents.

They're diggers.

They're the most prolific carrier of rabies in the Midwest, and they carry other deadly diseases.

And....

they're still under the Cottage.

But.
I called in reinforcements this morning. After they woke me up at 2 a.m. with their shenanigans, I was waving my white flag.

I gave up trying to exterminator-woman.

I asked for help.

It's possible I might have the touch

The inside of my nose was bleeding today.

I'm not going to say it was the odiforous aroma I've concocted, with the help of skunks, in the Cottage, but it is a coincedence.

Duly noted.

It's nearly 10:30 and the sounds that tormented me last night are gone.
For now.

It's amazing what happens when you plug the entrance(s).

So, I discovered that skunks are not nocturnal. They are crepuscular, meaning they come out at dawn and dusk. So who set their alarm for pre-dawn so she wouldn't miss the grand exodus?

This girl.

I was out wondering around cautiously in my yard, looking very suspicious, I'm sure.
I'm not sure what I was looking for at pre-dawn, but by the time the sun actually rose, I sprang to action. I piled up rocks and boulders around the holes, scraped gravel, and then set the live trap, which basically made me feel awesome and made for great conversation, but achieved nothing else.

The under carriage of the Cottage is silent - there is no love-making here tonight. If it were possible for a skunk to wave a white flag, I think they'd be waving theirs.

I win.

Be my subscriber...

...if you wanna.

Girl vs. Wild

I've shared houses with love-makers and I'm OK with it.

Have I walked in on two people consumating?
No.

Have I heard things going on in rooms around me?
Maybe.

Have I not heard things going on in rooms around me and wondered if they ever did it?
Yes.

Am I alright with the love-making situation going on under the Cottage at the present time?
Hell to the no.

Would I be able to sit comfortably in my warm bed if I could see the creatures that I hear under my floorboards right now?
*more emphatically* NO.

So, you've known, as have I, that creatures have lived under the Cottage. I use the past tense because I stopped hearing them and assumed they'd moved on. The dumbass that I am did not clog the hole.

It's night-time. 8 p.m. I go to bed. Exhausted.
Midnight. I'm awakened by tumbling and squeaks and fighting under my floorboards. Not only does it wake me up, but I can't go back to sleep.

I grab my broom.
Because that's what every 20-something single girl in a Cottage does.

I started with negative reinforcement. Every time I heard a squeak, I banged on the floor with the broom handle. Not one squeak went unbanged.

And then, as if on cue, every creature under the Cottage, however many there were, gave me the middle finger via their anal glands.

The entire Cottage erupted in one big skunk fart.

To say that I was stunned is an understatement.
I went back to bed.

I flexed some serious Google muscle and found out that white vinegar works wonders on skunk odor. I also learned that skunk scent is oil-based and therefore absorbs into your human pores. Your human pores. And that for days after being exposed to the smell, you'll catch a whiff of it and it's yourself.

Great.

One gallon of white vinegar later and the Cottage was glistening in pungent cleanliness. Next up: get rid of the skunks.

My idea was to poison them and I read that they are deathly allergic to chocolate. I also read that it hardens their blood and dries up their innards, making for a slow death best sped up by blunt force trauma to the head with a shovel.
Um, no.

In some states poisoning them is illegal.
I can't go to jail for skunks.

I could try trapping them. I have a trap and apparently they like dog food.
But if they are of the hog-nosed variety, they are impossible to trap.

I read that if you soak a rag in vinegar and put it outside at night, it will deter them.
So I soaked four paper towels and threw them out the kitchen window in the general vicinity of their entrance.

I also discovered that it's skunk mating season. And males will travel 4 to 6 miles to get to a female. And that they're getting it on right now under my bed.

I am traumatized. It sounds violent and not fun, and it stinks.
It all stinks.

My nose is so assaulted that it can't tell what the heck it's smelling anymore. Between skunk juice, vinegar and Febreeze, I've got some sort of chemical concoction going on that's probably HAZMAT worthy.

I'm afraid skunks are going to pop out of my air vent.
I'm afraid they're going to eat through the floorboard and attack me in my sleep.
I'm afraid they'll never come out.
I'm afraid I'm going to go to work and smell like either skunk or vinegar.

"I feel like a skunk stake-out is in order," I texted a friend. "Apparently they like dog food. Maybe I can coax them out and then clog the hole."

"Maybe," was her reply, and then more practically, "If you want you can come sleep on our couch tonight until someone can come fix it tomorrow."

I'm going to try the dog food. The dog food and the trap.

This isn't rocket science. This is me against nature, which, OK, probably resembles a NASA-approved formula for a spaceship launch, but I'm a patient hunter.

(Not really), but I'll getcha.

Or at least I'll try.

Armed with a broom...

when you're this tired...

...you take your clothes off as soon as you walk through the door and you don't care where they land.
...you unclasp your bra and think that's all you have to do before it's off.
...you eat more pizza than you should.
...you push off work to tomorrow even though that means you technically won't have a day off this week.
...you mistake the aroma of chicken in the crock pot for dog shit.
...you wish for 8 p.m. to get here so you can go to sleep and not feel so lame on a Saturday night.
...you are so, so excited to sleep. Just sleep. And not set an alarm.

gently closing

I'm not a gentle person sometimes. I break a lot of shit because I get impatient. Just tonight I used my foot to (gently) press my front door shut (the frame swells in the humidity and today it was humid) and the door squashed a little. In my defense, it's a cheap door. Not hard at all.

The cowardly part of me wants to slam this week closed. Shut. Gone. Can I tell you it's been a terrible week?

Yes, there have been gem moments. Like last night when a very dear friend and a coworker joined me at a local bar to eat fried pickles and watch Murray State on the biggest TV in the place. That was a great three hours.

Other hours, other moments have not been great, and those are the ones the cowardly part of me wants to dismiss. You did not exist.

But to do that means to slam a proverbial door on the being who held my hand, or at least nustled it, through nearly every milestone in my young adult life. I can't slam the door on him.

Everyone has been so gracious and kind with their words. Friends are calling at all hours, texting and Facebooking....some remembering him with me, others sympathizing, others saying they were so glad to have met him just last weekend.

Are you okay?

Yes, I am.
I am okay because he was in my life.
I am okay because he made it okay. He made so much good.

I cry when I get home. I'm crying now. It's what he meant to me, what he represented, who he was that gets me. And then wrapped around the fact that he's gone. Zeb is gone.

I can't slam the door on this week.

I'm gently closing it, but I'm leaving it open a crack. I'll want to come back and remember. The brave part of me will always come back, will always revisit.

I'm leaving the proverbial light on, too.

Zeb

There's something about these words that I want to be perfect.
I want to describe the way he knew my soul.
I want you to see me, 15 years old, laying in my bunk bed in a travel trailer, him next to me, my hand making even strokes across his side until he fell asleep.
I want you to watch that same hand, now 28 years old, caressing, massaging the same side. Except this time I was telling him, "It's okay. You can go if you need to."

And he did.

The same noble way he insisted on walking ahead of me always and the way he looked at me when I helped him stand up when he was stiff - thankful, but stoic - is the same way he left. He tried to stand up when I stopped petting him and went into the house. And then, when I came back, moments later, he was gone.

He left exactly how, selfishly, I wanted him to. I wanted him home, with me, peaceful. I wanted it to end how it all started 13 years ago.

I sat with him for a long time - same hand, same side.

There is so much about him to say, so much to talk about, so many memories, so many things I'll say later, but for right now, I miss him.

And the tears just keep falling.