Now I’m as much a sucker for meadowlarks singing and a warm
breeze whistling through the pine trees as the next gal. I’m not
callous to daffodils and tulips, lilacs and symbols of hope and new
life.
But when the first hummingbird crosses my path, instead of being
in awe of the tiny powerhouses, I cringe.
Karen Kendig
By By: Karen Kendig
Spring stinks.
Now I’m as much a sucker for meadowlarks singing and a
warm breeze whistling through the pine trees as the next gal. I’m
not callous to daffodils and tulips, lilacs and symbols of hope and
new life.
But when the first hummingbird crosses my path, instead
of being in awe of the tiny powerhouses, I cringe. Those jeweled
creatures symbolize nothing but work for me. An old wives’ tale
says it’s time to plant your garden when the first hummingbird
appears. That means get out the tiller, rummage through the garden
room for hose and pipes and plant like the dickens before that
first spring hailstorm wipes out the little green
seedlings.
Go into any feed store and you will know it’s spring
when you come upon a stock tank filled with artificially colored
chicks and goslings. While my husband refuses to buy artificially
colored poultry, he has yet to refrain from purchasing every rare
variety of fowl catalogs that feed stores have to offer. In a few
weeks a large box with several varieties of chicks and ducklings
will arrive at the post office with our name on
it.
Speaking of fragrant, the flowering plum bush is in
bloom and every time I walk outside I think someone has just put a
fabric softener cloth in the dryer. I could stand in proximity to
those blossoms and the lilacs all day if it weren’t for the wasps.
Those little guys mean business.
Spring also is the time you realize what kind of monkey
business has been going on during those bitterly cold months of
February and March. Any time now, one of our barn cats will give
birth to who knows how many offspring.
It is because of those impending births my husband and
daughter set a trap to catch the momma and confine her in a safe
and secure place so we might be able to train the kittens to be
comfortable around humans, and as a result, be easier to pawn off
on someone else.
I opened the can of tuna. My daughter placed it in the
cage. By bedtime, there was still no sign of the cat so everyone
went to sleep never giving the wire cage a second
thought.
In the morning, our daughter came running into our
bedroom. There was something caught in the trap, but it wasn’t the
tabby we had been trying to catch. This fur ball was black and
white.
You guessed it. We caught ourselves a genu-whine
polecat. In English that means skunk.
At 2 seconds after 8 a.m., my husband was on the phone
to the county extension office. When the machine answered, he
wondered where everyone could be. Three minutes later the secretary
called and said she had a call in to the master gardeners.
Apparently they are in charge of wildlife too. Another 10 minutes
and the phone rang.
“I hear you have a skunk?”
“Yes. What should we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
I found that an odd question, yet I did come up with a
relatively quick answer.
“I don’t think anyone really wants to kill it. We just
don’t want to get sprayed.”
“Throw a blanket over the cage – one you don’t mind
throwing away. Then open the cage door and let him out. Oh, and
maybe you should wear clothes you don’t mind throwing away
either.”
My husband entered the kitchen in his silk pants and
sweater, ready for work. This stinkin’ problem wasn’t getting
solved any time soon, I cleverly surmised.
“I’ll do it tonight when I get home,” he said and was
out the door.
I found a blanket and tried to sneak up on the varmint
around lunchtime. You can’t sneak up on something that’s looking
right at you. But he was gracious enough to not raise his tail
until I left.
That evening, my husband put on sweats and an old
T-shirt. He grabbed a pitchfork and headed for the trap. A skunk
and a pitchfork did not seem to be likely bedfellows. Considering I
hadn’t volunteered to do anything about the problem, I kept quiet.
I watched as my husband used the pitchfork to raise the door of the
cage, pitch it across the lawn and run like a hellcat back to the
door.
We held our breath. Nothing exited the cage. But
remember, spring is a time of optimistic hope.
We went to bed with one thing on our
minds.
And in the morning, the skunk had
vamoosed.
Ah, the fragrant blessings of spring.
Karen Kendig is a 2005 Colorado Press Association
award-winning columnist. She can be reached at
KENDIGKAREN5@aol.com