The grinnin’ skunk

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skunk

One early Friday morning I was thinking, “Get away.” The sun was shining at my 

back, a perfect fishing day.  

I loaded up my camper, grabbed an extra pole and net. Then I lit out for my 

fishing hole, a place I’d soon regret.  

I chose a spot down by the creek and backed my camper in.  A jagged tree limb 

snagged the roof and tore right through the tin.

Now, the weatherman’s prediction was, “There ain’t no chance of rain.”  So, I 

didn’t bother fixin’ the new hole in my domain.

I lit my Coleman lantern.  Time to make some hot cocoa. Then the noise of 

runnin’ water told my bladder, “Time to go!”

I hopped down from my trailer, held my lantern up to see.  Then promptly 

stopped dead in my tracks.  A skunk was eyein’ me.

The ball of furry black and white sat straight back on his heels.  I couldn’t move a 

muscle just stood blurtin’ tiny squeals.  

I swear the doggone, stinkin’ polecat grinned from ear to ear. No doubt he’d tried 

this trick before.  He prob’ly sensed my fear.

He almost seemed quite friendly but I ain’t no stupid clunk. Don’t ever trust those 

varmints. Heck, that’s why they call ’em skunk.  

I turned around and made the dash, the fastest five-yard run. The skunk lit in 

behind me. He was havin’ all the fun.  

I opened-up the camper door then closed it for the night. But I hadn’t solved the 

problem with my bladder so dang tight.

I peered out through the window.  Couldn’t see the little guy. So, I nudged the 

door an inch or two. The pungent squirt flew by.  

The smell was so horrific. Made the stuff run out my nose.  A darn good thing I 

ducked. The skunk shot like a garden hose.

That’s when I saw the lightnin’.  Heard the crackin’ thunderclap. It was gonna be 

a down pour. What a dang sure sorry sap.

The rain was pourin’ sideways.  Never trust the weatherman.  I was stuck out in a 

rainstorm in an oversized tin can.  

It didn’t take me long to find an empty bottle of pop. Then I filled the Pepsi bottle 

from the bottom to the top.  

The night was sure a long one, didn’t get a wink of sleep. And by the way I’ve got 

a stinkin’ camper sellin’ cheap. 

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Bryce Angell’s father was an outfitter and guide for 35 years, and Bryce was there to shoe and care for the horses and help him do the cooking. Bryce is from Idaho and still rides into the Tetons, Yellowstone and surrounding areas. His poems are mostly of personal experience.

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