When sharpshooting goes bad

My husband stuck his head in the house and hollered, "Is your coop open?"

I didn't answer right away because I was busy thinking (and making pancakes). Why in the world would he ask me that? My chickens were puttering around the yard doing their thing, so obviously the coop was open. But since we have such great communication around here, I played it safe. Perhaps a gust of wind had blown the coop door shut. Or something. And why would he care anyway?

"It should be open", were the words that I chose gently, very much the way you would pick raspberries off the cane.

Then all things were made known to me.

"There is a skunk in the shop."

"In the shop?"

"Yes, in the shop."

Concise and clear, with no room for error. Such a beautiful thing.

A cupboard door slammed and I heard that metallic "ka-chink". He had my gun.

{if you don't like the type of story that involves a skunk and a gun, you would do well to end today's visit to the farm now... you've been warned}

It was my turn to yell. "Be sure it's not a cat!" I put my spatula down, swung my baby onto my hip and followed him out the door.

{insert some banjo diddly here... and have I mentioned we have nothing but mud in front of the house right now, along with the flattened remnant of my once beautiful flower bed?}

Okay, so it was something. Not a gust of wind, but rather similar in a way if the occasion was right. And people, you already know the occasion was so right that it was going to be very very wrong.


{a raspberry that has nothing to do with my story}

I raced off to the barn to be sure my chickies weren't under skunk assault, since all kinds of metal things were at the same moment apparently fighting for their lives in the shop. All was well. The bird-brains were oblivious to the drama as usual. Life in a shell. First literally and then figuratively.

Just then Pepe le Pew meandered out the shop door, and I witnessed my expert marksmanship former Marine husband drop to his knee while simultaneously firing a single shot. He made it look effortless. I was impressed. It would be an understatement of magnificent proportions to say that his form was better than mine when I shot a bad little skunk two years ago.

However, my aim was better.

It went back into the shop and the Marine was left pacing back and forth on the driveway with my shotgun, debating his next move. Firing inside the shop without eye protection was not an option.

It was interesting and everything, so I went back into the house. I found our boys running around the kitchen with their pancakes, like little wind-up crumb dispensers.

"Is Daddy still alive?"

"Yep. He's standing out there looking very grumpy."

They were bouncing off the walls. "Can we see him? Is the skunk dead? Mommy can we see Daddy? Did he shoot the skunk? Mommy! MommyMommyMommy!"

I moved my pancake batter bowl and put them both, with pancakes in hand, on the kitchen counter with a window facing the farmyard. An eternity later A few minutes later I heard the front door swing open, but I couldn't hear the words that accompanied it. I was sort of curious to say the least.

"What?"

And then I smelled him.

The boys scrambled down from their perch and met him at the border of the demilitarized zone baby gate that blocks our entryway. Our hero had already discarded his clothes at the door. The air was filled with a nearly electric excitement, along with a stench that burned my eyes and made me gag.

It was our oldest boy, always the thinker, who surveyed the scene and made the whole event priceless.

"Daddy", he demanded, "How grumpy are you?"

I'm not sure I've ever giggled and gagged that hard at the same time.

Luckily, it wasn't a direct hit. Two showers later their Daddy was cleared to spend the night indoors.

In a way, the whole ordeal reminded me of THIS...


Although that time the battle was less stinky to say the least.