Image by Travis Bumgardner / Adobe Firefly
Here at the farm, we’ve had an influx of undesirable critters. I don’t know who posted a “Welcome” sign at the entrance of our property, but Poppa and I would be much obliged if the critters would just move on out and mind their own business.
It began in the spring when I detected a fragrance one can only describe as unmistakably skunky. The stench traveled on a phantom breeze and had me sniffing the air like a red bone coon dog. Was that a skunk? I took a few steps. Paused. Sniffed. Searched the ground for the signs of Pepe’ Le Pew. Pepe’ uses his nose to dig a perfect circular hole in the ground while looking for insects. Locating no holes, I prayed—Oh, Lord, how I prayed—that I didn’t have a skunk in the outbuilding across the road.
As a digression, a friend later visited the farm, gave the air a polite whiff and eyeballed me with suspicion. Apparently, there’s a new breeds of cannabis which also releases a similar VSC, volatile sulfur compounds. This chemical compound radiates a skunky funk. Kind of like body odor, but to the tenth power.
I’ll take the skunk stench for $100, Alex.
Operation, capture Pepe’ became a top priority. We would simply catch him on the lower forty and release him atop the mountain where, prayerfully, he would mosey on over to the National Park and could live odoriferously ever after. We set the live trap the same day. The purpose of a live trap is to humanely capture, and subsequently release, undesirable critters. I am pleased to say the trap was successful, but now we had a problem. How to survive the relocation of Pepe’ from here, to there.
Enter Neighbor Steve. Neighbor Steve is a huge drink of corn juice, the kind of man who towers over mere mortals and intimidates them with a stare. When there’s a hint of trouble Neighbor Steve is the first person to call. For you see, he grew up with skunks. Had them as pets. He is a master of the Mephitis genus. The savant of Skunk Town.
“Just sneak up on the trap, cover it in a blanket and gently place the trap in the back of the truck. Trust me. He won’t spray.”
The Winchester contingency was skeptical.
“Nothing I hate worse’n bein’ sprayed with a skunk,” Poppa offered, his tone filled with regret. “We shouldn’t have set that trap.”
“We can’t have a skunk living under the building, or worse, having a litter of kits in the tack room,” I defended.
“Want me to do it?” Neighbor Steve offered. “You know I had them as pets. I ain’t skeert.”
Having gone on his share of hunts during his black-and-tan dog running days, I could tell Poppa wanted no part of this relocation. He recalls dogs who were happy to share the oily spray with their handlers, and traveling home with the windows rolled down while gulping for fresh air. But a Winchester man is nothing if not proud.
“If Steve can relocate a polecat, I can, too,” Poppa Winchester said.
Miraculously, he released Pepe’ without incident. While a skunk is endowed with pungent scent glands that’ll strip paint off the walls from 20 feet, they are blind as the proverbial bat.
We caught. Poppa released. We carried on.
The next night, Pepe’ returned with a band of friends I’ll call the Masked Bandits of Deep Creek.
In my haste to rid the farm of the polecat, I had forgotten all about the 36 pickle jars rolling around the backseat of my truck. You see, Lady Farmers in Appalachia need storage vessels. A good gallon jar, especially one with a wide mouth opening, is hard to find. One of my best friends had a source and she shared her jars, as any good Lady Farmer should.
Why were the jars in the back of my truck? I am glad you asked. The beloved husband had issued a moratorium on my procurement of any more jars, which is why I had the perfect place for the hiding of things otherwise prohibited on the Ponderosa.
While I am an expert at smuggling in the occasional tiny jar, a gallon jar doesn’t exactly fit into my purse. I needed a strategy to prep the jars. Removing the dill pickle residue from the lids required copious amounts of space and Clorox. It isn’t easy to purge the lids of vinegar and spices; that is best completed by letting the washed lids sit in the sun for a few days. These tasks are better performed at the farm far away from the jar-loathing beloved.
In my hurry to unload the jars, I stacked them in the breezeway instead of locking them in the outbuilding. No one would take my jars, I thought. No one but me is crazy enough to want 36 pickle jars.
I’ve never been so wrong about anything in my life.
That night, the Masked Bandits of Deep Creek—along with Pepe’ Le Pew as lead vocalist—released a siren’s call inviting critters from across the county to my farm for a little kegger. Upon my arrival the following morning, I discovered not a single lid remained attached to the jars. The critters had played a game of disc golf with the lids, of that I’m certain, because I’m still looking to connect bases to lids.
The jars which I had stacked with the utmost of care were now scattered everywhere. Vinegary paw prints streaked the glass. Not a single drop of pickle juice remained inside. Puzzled, I wondered, how in the dickens did they remove the lids when I had tried just one day prior and determined the lids would require soaking in hot water in order to release the rubber rings. I looked down at my hands, and then the post-party mess.
It had been a party to behold. They served pickle juice martinis and peanut butter crackers as evidenced by the fact that these cussed critters, inebriated by the juices of Mount Olive, North Carolina, had ripped the door off the dorm-refrigerator where we keep our water and crackers.
Plenty of water remained inside. Empty wrappers littered the dirt. We are working to repair the door.
If anyone has any extra live traps we can borrow, let me know.
About the author: Renea Winchester is an internationally-released, award winning author who farms the land with her beloved Poppa.