The Squatter Skunk

Construction on my basement has been slow going since April. Like a determined driver with a flat, my Lithuatian carpenter is inching his way toward the finish line. 100 weekday nights and weekend days are finally looking like something.

But before all the hammering and sheet rocking, we had a little fun in the name of demolition. We tore up the place like a couple of rock stars. Kicked in walls. Ripped down ceilings. We created a pile in the backyard that, after months of work, grew to the size of a Volkswagen. Rusty nails, wood scraps, plaster chunks, all of it sat there decaying, soaking in what nature threw at it.

We cleaned the pile yesterday. Threw it all in a giant dumpster that now owns half of my driveway. As we were cleaning, Mark started yelling, "Go Greg. Go. Go." I thought he was cheering me on. After all, I was tossing the soggy sheet rock into the dumpster at a pretty good clip.

"Get outta here," he yelled, this time backing away from the pile. Apparently, one critter's junk is another critter's home. A skunk decided to settle in for a few months—and we were tearing the roof off his new home.

Must've been a horrifying experience for him. I felt for him, at a distance of approximately 10 yards.

He scurried into his underground bunker to wait us out. The hole was just big enough for your fist. You could just see the white stripe on his head and his eyes carefully watching you from inside. Frozen with fear, he felt safer there.

Mark came back into the scene with a 6 foot long 2x4. He placed the end of it just outside the hole. He looked at me and said, "Give me the word."

"Are you kidding?"

He just looked at me, didn't need to say a word.

"You can't kill him, Mark."

"Ah, you guys from Florida are soft. Somebody from Maine would've said 'what are you waiting for?'"


GM