by Inman Majors
“Did we now?” said the Critter Catcher.
“Tell him I think it’s the skunk king,” said Missy.
Penelope frowned and pretended not to hear.
“Tell him it’s pacing like a mother and looking highly agitated,” Missy said. “Tell him he’s going to have to whisper his ass off to calm this fucker down.”
Penelope put a finger in her unoccupied ear to drown out the noise. Buford King was explaining in loving detail his plans to head their way as soon as he made stops at the hardware store, and the feed store, and his grandbaby’s house to drop off a little play-pretty that he picked up at the flea market over the weekend. He was spoiling her rotten, but you couldn’t blame him. Cutest little thing you ever saw. Spitting image of Darlene, right down to the little button nose. In sum, he’d be there directly.
Penelope said that would be fine and hung up.
“What did he say?” Missy asked.
“He’ll be here in a little while.”
“That’s it? Did he go over his plan? What are the details?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What was he talking about for five minutes, then?”
“This and that. He’s coming. Stop sweating it.”
“Stop sweating it? We’ve trapped the skunk overlord. And right now his kinfolks are streaming out of that flappy door at Dimwit’s. Snag a walkie-talkie and go check. I’ll man the lookout window.”
Penelope left the office, shaking her cell phone over her shoulder for Missy’s benefit. She knew there was nothing to see but thought she’d clear her head a bit outside before the Critter Catcher’s arrival. She’d been outside for approximately three seconds when her phone rang.
“Do you see anything?”
Penelope walked around to the back and stole a glance at Missy. She was frowning over her binoculars and jerking her head all over the place.
Crouching out of her employer’s field of vision, she crabwalked until she was just beneath the window. Into her phone she said, “I think there might be one out back. I smell it for sure. And now I hear rustling!”
Then she rattled the hell out of the pane with her fist.
When she stood upright, she could no longer see her boss. She said, “Did you hear that? What was it?”
“They’re coming! I told you. I’m up on your desk. Get back inside quick!”
Worried about heart attacks, panic attacks, and injuries resulting from falls from on high, any of which would end with her having to drive to the emergency room, Penelope called off the dogs. She signaled this by standing up, looking inside, and rapping the theme from The Lone Ranger on the glass.
Missy let the binoculars hang limply around her neck and gifted her with a double-bird salute. Penelope smiled and bowed. As she did, the breeze picked up and she noted for the first time the faint aroma of skunk. She glanced up the hill toward Dimwit’s place. If she played her cards right with the captured skunk and the Critter Catcher, phase two of Operation Dimwit could get started that very night.
23
Ninety minutes later, Penelope stood in the parking lot, watching the Critter Catcher make his ambling way into Rolling Acres Estates, pipe smoke trailing from the window, small animals capering before him.
It took about fifteen minutes to get the truck parked to his exacting specifications, excluding the time he spent stopping to wave, smile, nod, and reconfigure his rearview mirror. Seeing the pickup finally come to a full stop and the engine turned off, Penelope poked her head in the office and said, “Buford King’s here. It’s safe to come out.”
“Thank God,” said Missy, bouncing past her down the steps and into the lot where the trapper was disembarking from the Critter Mobile and whistling a merry rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
“Well, we did it,” Missy said, approaching the trapper with high five at the ready and binoculars swinging freely about her neck. “We caught the king. Or queen. Or whatever. It’s the leader. I remember that distinctive stripe from the night they swarmed me. Those marshmallows did the trick, all right!”
The bewildered trapper stood frozen in place, staring at the proffered palm, unsure of its meaning or purpose. Dropping her hand from on high, Missy pulled the binoculars from her neck and said, “Here, have a look. See if it’s not the leader of the pack.”
This was a gesture easily deciphered, and Buford King took the field glasses and aimed them in the direction indicated by Missy’s pointing finger.
First he whistled in a low, appreciative way. Then he clucked and clicked his tongue in further expressions of awe. Following this was a softly rendered slam poem consisting solely of the word well. About nine stanzas, all told.
Having fully appraised the captive on the east quadrant, his poem took a surprising free verse turn: “Look at Miss Pretty. Oh me. Oh my. That is, Miss Missy, a distinctive white stripe. Most distinctive indeed. Oh, she is a beauty. Pepé Le Pew should be along any minute now, any minute. I am almost positive she is female. So that would be the queen, and not the king, who is now kicking up a fuss. And spitting. And stomping them feet. That, my friends, is what is known as a deimatic display. It is meant to warn off predators who might be getting peculiar ideas about their next meal. Well, I best go check on our friend and see what’s ailing her.”
Smiling and clucking and whistling still, he handed the glasses to Missy, nodded to Penelope, and hopped back into his truck.
Missy looked puzzled as the engine on the Critter Mobile started up, and she turned both palms up to Penelope in a What gives? gesture. Buford King had closed the door and had his hand on the gearshift when Missy knocked lightly on the half-open window.
“Aren’t we going with you? I thought you might need a little backup. Penelope and I would love to help.”
“No we wouldn’t,” Penelope said.
Missy shot her a look and Penelope repeated her earlier statement.
“I appreciate that,” said the Critter Catcher, chuckling. “Really, I do. I usually work alone, but if you want to tag along, I’ve no objection. Just follow me down in one of your cars and we’ll see what we can see.”
After several aborted attempts, the Critter Catcher managed to back his truck out, and the caravan was under way. He drove slowly, despite Missy’s tailgating, and slower still as he navigated the three-inch curb that abutted the field. Gentle was a not gentle enough word for his negotiation of this obstacle. Once he’d nudged over it and Missy had rip-assed over that same boundary, they bounced a quarter mile or so over the vacant lot. Eventually, the Critter Mobile came to an easy stop, twenty feet from the east quadrant cage. This was much closer than Penelope would have advised, but she was not a professional tracker. She parked behind the CC, then, reconsidering, backed up a hundred feet or so.
“What are you doing?” Missy said, dropping her binoculars with no little drama. “Go on up there with the Whisperer. I’m wearing heels, for God’s sake.”
“I think I’m fine here. You’re the one who gets so freaked out by skunks.
I’m admitting a healthy respect when I actually see one, not when I think there’s a phantom horde after me like some people I know.”
Missy weighed this. She picked up the binoculars for a closer look. Mr. King was making his initial foray into opening the truck door. Next—in quite a lot more than a wink—he’d debark. Time was not of the essence. Missy put the glasses down. She gave Penelope one long, dramatic stare then shoved a walkie-talkie across the seat toward her.
“Because I’m the coolest boss ever, I’m going to let you hear the Whisperer work his magic even though you’re too chicken to get up close. Watch and learn, country girl. These aren’t ordinary skunks, but me and the Whisperer aren’t ordinary experts either.”
She hopped out and approached the trapper, who was still fiddling with something in the cab of the truck. Penelope assumed some sort of gear or equipment must be needed to handle an angry skunk. She wondered about the transit from cage to truck to gas
chamber. It seemed like a lot of steps before the voyage to Skunky Heaven. Missy was engaged in conversation with him. She nodded, brow furrowed, a number of times and seemed to be agreeing with the proposed course of action. Eventually the Critter Catcher emerged. Penelope had been expecting some sort of intricate outfit, perhaps like a beekeeper would wear, but the only thing new was a lit long-handled pipe, which he was now peaceably smoking, and a bag of marshmallows in one hand.
The walkie-talkie crackled to life and Missy said, “Check, one, two. Check, one, two.”
She gave Penelope her most determined face, eyes squinted and all, and Penelope said, “Ten-four, good buddy. I got my ears on. You can put the pedal to the metal.”
Missy shook her head in a sad way, as one does when serious matters are put before the unserious. The Critter Catcher was opening his knife and deciding which of the multitude of blades to use to open the marshmallow bag when Missy said, “So Mr. King, what’s the plan?”
She was holding the walkie-talkie at arm’s length, so Penelope could hear both ends of the conversation. She had the air of an arty documentarian.
“Well, Miss Missy,” said Buford King, as he finally settled on the right blade and commenced slicing. “The first thing I’ll do is have me a little conversation with Miss America yonder. I’ll start here in a bit, so she gets used to the sound of my voice. That’s before I ever make my approach.”
Missy nodded and said to Penelope: “Did you hear that? He’s going to use voice hypnosis initially to relax the animal.”
“Affirmative,” said Penelope. “I copy.”
When Missy shot her a look this time, Penelope gave a grinning thumbs-up. She’d grown up yakking away to truckers on George’s CB and it felt good to be using the vernacular again.
Missy shifted weight back and forth in her high heels and swatted at a bug with her free hand. Glancing at her palm, she seemed pleased with the results. That hand was now wiped on the hem of her Gucci dress. “What’s step two?”
“Step two, little lady, is a very slow approach, so I don’t startle our friend. I’ll be walking behind that towel you see on the front seat. Once I’ve done my calming, I’ll drape that towel over the cage, nice and easy, and Mrs. Skunk will think it’s nighttime. She’ll get real settled then and we’ll be home free. I usually toss in a few marshmallows as a kind of last meal. Just to say No hard feelings.”
Through a little radio static, Missy said: “And then?”
“And then I’ll very gently walk the trap over to my truck and place it in that chamber right there to induce narcosis. I won’t dispose of the remains until I’m home and can do it properly.”
Both Missy and the CC liked the medical sound of that and nodded to each other agreeably. Missy said: “And what can I do to help?”
The trapper tipped his Stetson to the sky and took a puff on the pipe. A turkey buzzard was flying overhead, riding the wind, and it held him rapt for a spell with its long-winged aerobatics. Missy looked nervously back and forth from the Critter Catcher to the car, as if she feared being shut out of the process at this very late date and the subsequent mockery of her skeptical coworker.
“Well,” said Buford King, after the bird had flown from sight, “I used to have a junior partner. But between you and me, he lacked the patience for trapping. He’s now working down at Ace Hardware. Good young fellow but better off selling nails, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, I used to let him handle the towel. I’d sidle up to the trap, doing my gentling, and he’d sneak round from the back. It generally worked real nice. I guess you could handle the towel if you want to.”
“Oh, I want to,” Missy said. “I’m really interested in hearing your voice hypnosis. And if this skunk is as smart as we think it is, a two-man operation seems like the safest way to go. You still think it’s possibly trained, right?”
“I have ruled nothing out at this juncture. That much I can tell you.”
Saying this, he shot the briefest of glances toward Penelope, as if to affirm, again, his truly impartial stance. Whether this was a special skunk or just a run-of-the-mill one was still to be determined.
The Critter Catcher knocked his pipe against his pants leg, then set it lovingly above the dashboard, as if he wanted easy access to it after the job was through. He grabbed the towel and handed it to Missy.
“Sneak around the other side of the truck,” he said. “And wait there till I give you the signal.”
Missy took the towel and said, “Got you. What’s the signal?”
“When I say Are you sleepy, Mrs. Skunk? you make your approach. Real quiet. Real gentle. There’s no need in the world to hurry. Our skunk friend isn’t going anywhere and neither are we. When you’re right behind it, I’ll say Good night, Mrs. Skunk. I hope you sleep well. And then you lay the towel all the way over the cage. She’ll be half asleep by the time I’m done talking and will never even know you’re back there. Easy as pie.”
The Skunk Whisperer motioned with his head for Missy to take her position, then indicated with his finger that he was heading toward the cage. Just before he departed, he pumped both palms down in a slow fashion in the classic Easy now gesture.
Missy put the walkie-talkie to her mouth and said, “We’re going in.”
Penelope said: “I got your back door, Rubber Duck. Put the hammer down.”
“What?”
“Affirmative. Ten-four. I copy, good neighbor.”
Her boss shook her head again in that disappointed way, then walked to the back of the truck, where she crouched like an infantryman waiting for the signal to charge.
24
From where Penelope was parked she could view all three participants in the unfolding drama. She observed the Critter Catcher mosey toward the trap, smiling and talking. The skunk had noticed him and stopped pacing. Motionless, it watched the approaching man. Missy was squatting awkwardly in her heels behind the Critter Mobile, teetering on her skinny, tan legs. Her dress was hiked up well above her thighs but she seemed to give this no thought. Glancing back to
Penelope, she put walkie-talkie to mouth and whispered: “I’m going to let you hear the Skunk Whisperer work his magic. He’s the real deal. I’m getting sleepy just listening to him. Check it out.”
So saying, she waddled a few paces along the side of the truck, walkie-talkie held aloft, towel draped round her neck like a scarf worn by a World War I airman. The voice on the other end sounded like it came from a tunnel but Penelope could hear Mr. King clearly: “Well, hey there, pretty girl. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes? And that stripe. I’ve never seen one quite so white, nor wide. Why, you’ve got whitewall tires, is what you got. And hey now, I got you a little treat. Would you like that? Would you like yourself a goodie?”
Missy now whispered into the mouthpiece: “Do you copy?”
“Affirmative, Rubber Duck.”
Missy shot Penelope a disgusted look to indicate that now was not the time. Penelope smiled but said no more. She felt the tension of the moment.
During the CC’s monologue the skunk had very sluggishly lain down. It rested now like a sleepy cat, head nestled on front paws. Penelope wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t just seen it with her own eyes. The cornered skunk looked not just docile, but asleep. Was she truly witnessing animal hypnosis?
Out of nowhere goose bumps appeared on her neck. She thought this resulted from the wonders of nature, then realized she felt as if she were being watched. Turning slowly in her seat, back toward Rolling Acres proper, and hiding her face as best she could with the headrest, she saw a small, hatted figure on the hill. It was Dimwit with his binoculars, watching the whole shooting match below. She thought of the Starbursts, and how one right now would make her feel like she was at the movies. Then the walkie-talkie crackled and she heard Missy say, “The Whisperer has worked his magic. That skunk is sawing logs. Listen.”
The skunk lifted its sleepy head and turned at the sound of the radio static. Missy froze with her walkie-talkie
arm in air, as if she’d just been touched in freeze tag. Then, ever so purposefully, she switched hands and held the radio close to her body, trying to be discreet.
The Critter Catcher said: “Now, Mrs. Skunk, don’t you worry yourself about that little lady over yonder. She’s my friend. And your friend too.”
The skunk took the trapper at his word and placed head back on paws. Her eyes were closed and Penelope could see her body rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Missy turned to wink at Penelope. Then she added a thumbs-up as well, which seemed like overkill. She again stretched the radio in front of her, chest high, just as the Critter Catcher said: “Are you sleepy, Mrs. Skunk?”
This question was accompanied by a significant look for Missy, who stood, wobbled for a moment, and then was erect. Penelope thought she should put the radio down and concentrate on the job at hand, but Missy felt otherwise. Perhaps she wanted audio proof of her first live capture. She unwrapped the towel from her neck, tripped on it and nearly went down, then gingerly approached skunk and Whisperer. The Critter Catcher waited a yard from the cage. His voice had grown even softer, more mellifluous, as he said, “I believe you’re the prettiest little ole skunk I ever saw.”
Missy nodded her head sleepily at this but failed to advance toward the cage.
The trapper continued his spiel: “Yes indeed, little lady, you are uniquely unique. You just keep a-resting and I’ll drop you down a few of these sweet treats. If you’re not hungry, well, you just save them for later.”
Penelope felt a little badly for the skunk, as there wasn’t going to be much of a later for her, but soon gave up this existential line of thinking. Missy was lumbering mummy style toward the action.
In a wheezing, fearful voice she spoke into the walkie-talkie: “Did you see the skunk move?”
“Negatory, good buddy,” Penelope whispered. “You’re still in the rocking chair. Keep the pedal down.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw it look at me.”
“Negatory. Quit talking. You’ll wake it up.”
