| Guest post by Git from Miss’a’sippi |
We’re thrilled to have our favorite small-town storyteller back on Veni, Vidi, Scripsi. Git has a knack for turning everyday mishaps into laugh-out-loud tales, all served with a side of Southern charm, self-deprecating humor, and a keen eye for the absurd. Grab a chair, settle in, and get ready for another wild ride through his world.
So there I was, minding my own business, feelin’ like I’d got a handle on adulting just because I remembered to take the trash out on Tuesday. Dog’s pacing by the back door, doin’ that impatient tail-whip thing that says, “I’m ready, you’re ready, let’s do this.” I grab my spotlight, step out under the carport, thinking I’m gonna supervise a routine potty run like a responsible dog dad.
Now, in my experience, night-time dog walks are usually pretty calm. You know, a little sniff here, a little circle there, maybe a weird owl hoot that makes both of us jump, and then back inside with minimal fuss. I’ve had possums crawl up the fence like they’ve got a grudge, and once—just once—a raccoon tried to drag my neighbor’s garden gnome across the lawn. But tonight? Tonight was different.
I didn’t even get to the part where I tell the dog to “Go!” before it hit me. That smell. Folks, it ain’t “ouch, somethin’ burned in the oven” bad. It’s “call the EPA, tell the neighbors to evacuate” bad.
Skunk. Right there, snacking on the leftover cat food like it owned the joint. I swear, it looked at me like, You got a problem with this?
Dog barked a couple times—smart girl—but apparently the skunk had already decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. It fired a warning shot away from her. She got a whiff, reconsidered all life decisions, and booked it to do her business like she suddenly cared about her own survival more than mine.
And me? I’m standin’ there, spotlight in hand, nostrils flaring, thinkin’: How the heck do you give a dog a bath at 11 PM with half a jug of Dawn and a prayer? I was already picturing sleeping in the garage till 6 AM. I even started running through skunk decontamination tips I’d read somewhere online: tomato juice, vinegar, baking soda, an incantation to Saint Francis of Assisi—just in case.
Bless her heart, she came back clean. Ghost-sprayed maybe, but not full-on chemical warfare. I reckon the skunk saw me and thought, “Nah, he’s not worth it tonight.” Maybe it figured it had done enough terrorizing for one evening. Or maybe it’s a nocturnal philosopher, pondering the futility of small-town human defenses.
Moral of the story? If you’re feeding strays, congratulations—you’re hosting a critter casino. And sometimes the house dealer’s a skunk with attitude and a vendetta. Keep your wits about you, your flashlight handy, and maybe keep a spritz bottle of vinegar nearby. Just saying.
Next time on Git’s Field Guide to Nighttime Critter Disasters: Possums, Porch Swings, and the Art of Playing Dead (Seriously, They Cheat).
Veni, Vidi, Scripsi 