Free Driving Minnie's Piano by Lesley Choyce Page B

hatchway, ducked under and around the
giant spiders that help protect my old house from unwanted insects.
Then I found my way to the northeast corner. I shone a flashlight
into the crawl space and could actually see branches, leaves and
scraps of cloth all bunched up into something like a
nest.
    I didn't poke it or prod it or
make too much in the way of loud noises. Instead, I ran an
extension cord, plugged in the light and the radio, set the dial to
the heavy rock station. The sounds of Metallica echoed around the
cold frosty cellar. That would do it. The skunks would be annoyed
by light, afraid of the heavy metal music and go somewhere
else.
    Two days passed and there was
still the sound of scratching beneath the floor. The darned music
was keeping us awake at night as well. It wasn't working at all.
Instead of driving the skunks away, maybe they were thinking we
liked them so much we decided to give them some creature comforts
like a glowing light bulb and non-stop, around-the-clock
entertainment in the form of loud guitars and smashing drums. The
next day I pulled the plug on the frills for the skunk
family.

    The expensive odour-killing
machinery was returned and the familiar smell continued on. I
bought a handmade live skunk trap from a farm supply store but it
didn't work. I baited it with mackerel and the skunk got away with
the fish every time. So I bought a bigger trap. It turned out my
skunk was a really big skunk that required a large wire cage called
a Havaheart trap. On my third night back home, I set the big trap
on the lawn, placed a fresh piece of haddock inside and slept
fitfully. I had not really planned what to do if I caught a live
skunk inside the cage.
    It snowed that night and in
the morning I awoke to a world of white. Everything was white, that
is, except for the black parts of the skunk that were in my cage.
He looked harmless enough, cute even. I had finally caught my
skunk. Pretty soon our troubles would be over.
    I wouldn't even approach the
skunk until I found someone with a truck willing to help carry it
away. I was turned down three times. One person said he'd be happy
to help do just about anything but deal with a skunk. He'd heard
stories of people dealing with skunks who never, ever got rid of
the smell. Eventually, I called a young surfer friend named Glenn,
who had a truck. He thought dealing with a skunk would be funny and
interesting.
    When Glenn arrived he saw me
standing in my driveway in heavy rubber boots, zip-up white
overalls, orange toque, heavy work gloves and safety glasses. I
looked like someone about to deal with a melt-down at a nuclear
reactor.
    The first thing I did was
throw an old blanket over the skunk cage. The skunk did not like
this at all and took revenge by polluting the front yard with a
toxic cloud. Glenn and I both ran for the bushes in retreat until
the worst of the attack was over. Then there was nothing else to do
but pick up the cage, skunk and all, hidden beneath the old
blanket, and we set it in the back of the pickup.
    We drove the skunk fifteen
kilometres away because I had done some research and learned that
skunks will return great distances to favoured “dens.” It was a
remote location by a lake, just off a big highway. Nearby, a local
artist had painted a giant green frog on a rock outcropping. There
were no houses for at least two kilometres in any direction. It was
a great, natural, safe place for a skunk to live out the rest of
his days.
    Far back from the road, Glenn
and I looked at each other, wondering how to open the cage to free
the skunk. It would be a dangerous deed. But it was my problem, my
skunk. I pulled down on the toque, positioned the safety glasses in
place, pulled on some rubber gloves and proceeded with great
caution.
    I gently raised the metal door
and asked the skunk to leave. He refused. I begged and pleaded but
he would have none of it. He wanted to go home, back to my
house.
    In desperation, I asked Glenn
to tilt the back