I live in the country.  I like it out here.  But, most people know how I feel about rats and snakes.  They scare me.  However, I found out the hard way that there's not much that can match the fear of meeting three pounds of persnickety polecat face to face.

     The day in question was as normal as any day in zoo-ville.  I had been busier than a one-legged chicken at Bo Pilgrim's place all day and was rushing out the door to attend a school function my daughter was involved in.  It's my routine to lock the inside mechanism of the door and then turn around and pull it shut.  This time, however, I was shocked to find that I was looking into a pair of demon eyes at the instant the latch went "click".  It sounded like a .44 magnum on a still night.  I was already pressed against the door to the point that I thought I would become a part of it but that was before the odiferous ball of fur hissed and jumped at me two or three times.  Instantly, my life passed before my eyes and, I've got to tell you, it was boring.  In addition, several questions came to my mind:

1.  I wondered if my wife and kids could live on the insurance settlement?

2.  Could they even have a funeral with that smell?

3.  Would I look like myself? (Invariably, someone will walk up to a casket and say, "Doesn't he look like himself?"  Like death is going to somehow turn him into Kate Hudson.)

     But above all things, my mind was targeted on that one subject of subjects concerning skunks...RABIES!  Now, I don't know about you but at times like these, I lose the ability to speak in complete sentences.

     "Craaap...crap...crap...crap...crap!" I said.

     Although it was difficult, I was able to regain enough composure to quietly and skillfully reach in my pocket for my keys.  But even though my key chain is the size of a bowling ball and comparable in weight, it had somehow slithered into the farthest recess of my pocket and appeared unreachable.  I meekly glanced back at the striped fury only to find that it was now four feet tall and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.

     "Craaap...crap...crap...crap...crap!" I said between choruses of, "Oh my dear Lord!"

     I looked over at my herd of attack cats but they were lounging around and meowing as if they had discovered a long, lost cousin.  No help there.  I made a mental note to buy a cattle prod and a lot of extra batteries if I managed to get through this alive.  Gonna be a high time at Cat-Berg tomorrow.

     I was finally able to retrieve my keys but like any good "B" movie victim running from a hockey-masked Jason, axe-wielding, killing machine, I couldn't find the right one.

     "Craaap...crap...crap...crap...crap!"

     The beast was now seven feet tall and weighed in at four-hundred pounds.  I finally found the right key but due to shaky hands and pure bad luck, it wouldn't go in the lock.

     "Do I really have to repeat it?"

     By now, the brute had grown to immense proportions.  Kind of like being attacked by Nebraska.  I could feet it's hot, evil breath as it nipped at my backside when the lock finally turned and I fell through the door and kicked it shut.  I was lying there breathing heavily with sweat on my brow and visions of demon-infested sugar plums dancing in my head when more questions came to mind:

1.  Is it possible to get rabies just my looking at a skunk?

2.  Would I ever be able to leave the house again?

3.  Do I ever WANT to leave the house again?

4.  Why can't people see that Superman is just Clark Kent without glasses?  All I can say is, there are some stooooopid people in Metropolis.

     I was beginning to relax and gaining some confidence in my chances for survival when I heard a commotion in the back yard.  I jumped to my feet and cautiously looked out the window.  I was surprised to see the skunk chasing my dog around the yard.

     "MY DOG!" I said as my spine straightened and the yellow streak began to fade.

     You can steal my car, burn my house or slap my mother-in-law but do NOT mess with my dog! (Okay, that last one was a bad example.  Slap away.  You get the idea.)

     I quickly grabbed my 12 gauge off the rack along with some 3-inch, double-aught, ground-plowing artillery rounds.

     "MY DOG!?" I said as I slung open the door and rushed outside.  I chambered a round in my Mossberg as I steadied myself for the jolt and waited for a shot.  After a few seconds, the skunk suddenly stopped and turned to look at me but before I could do anything, my dog jumped at her which caused her to again take up the chase.

   I jerked the gun barrel in the air and yelled, "What are you doing? You wanna get killed?"

     That's when I noticed that she appeared to be smiling at me.  I was steadily turning as dog and skunk continued to run in circles around me...and she was smiling.  Her tongue was hanging out, her ears were flopping and she appeared to be having the time of her doggie life.  I noticed that the skunk seemed to be having an equally good time but probably due to shorter legs and less puppy-like stamina, she finally stopped and then ambled off to do whatever skunks do at a time like that.  I sat down on the back steps and Ashley lay down beside me, panting with tired satisfaction.

     "It's a circus," I said to nobody in particular.  "I'm living in a circus.  Where are the clowns?"

     And that's when I realized that one was sitting there with a shotgun cradled in his arms.  All I needed was the paint.  But, Ashley looked up at me with that same loving gaze she always gave me and I decided that being a clown is okay.  It's the audience that makes the act worthwhile anyway.

www.lifeinthedweeblane.com