It’s hard to protect yourself from harm if you've forgotten who your enemy is.
Allow me to explain.
I like to go for a two-mile jaunt after the dogs do their business first thing in the morning. I take them out at 5 a.m. and they’re quite efficient and predictable. So I usually start my trek about 5:25 or so.
At this time of year in New England, it's still dark at that hour. Unfortunately, the early risers whose pickups are careening down the street are more focused on getting to Dunkin’ Donuts or Tim Hortons than on keeping an eye out for pedestrians.
So I stick to the sidewalk, listen for approaching vehicles, watch for oncoming headlights and check driveways as I pass by, to make sure some sleepy-eyed motorist isn’t about to back out and flatten me into a pancake.
Yesterday morning, though, all was quiet as I walked along a deserted street here in Augusta, Maine. No cars in sight. Driveways silent. The entire city seemingly asleep as I made my rounds.
That’s when I happened to glance at a city park across the street. It, too, seemed devoid of life. Except, that is, for the unmistakable black and white form at the edge of the park, only a few feet from me.
Pepé Le Pew seemed too intent on hunting up some breakfast to pay much attention to me, so I just kept walking, nice and slow. A few minutes later, as I returned home along the same street, the skunk had moved a block or so to someone’s front yard, where it continued its search for food.
I read somewhere that skunks, which dislike us as much as we do them, have poor eyesight but excellent hearing. So the best way to avoid a confrontation is to warn them of your presence, by singing or humming. That is supposed to get their attention and send them scurrying on their way.
Whistling Dixie probably won’t protect me from a Ford F-250 when it’s barreling down the road in the predawn darkness. But maybe the caffeine-starved guy behind the wheel isn’t the real enemy after all.
Allow me to explain.
I like to go for a two-mile jaunt after the dogs do their business first thing in the morning. I take them out at 5 a.m. and they’re quite efficient and predictable. So I usually start my trek about 5:25 or so.
At this time of year in New England, it's still dark at that hour. Unfortunately, the early risers whose pickups are careening down the street are more focused on getting to Dunkin’ Donuts or Tim Hortons than on keeping an eye out for pedestrians.
So I stick to the sidewalk, listen for approaching vehicles, watch for oncoming headlights and check driveways as I pass by, to make sure some sleepy-eyed motorist isn’t about to back out and flatten me into a pancake.
Yesterday morning, though, all was quiet as I walked along a deserted street here in Augusta, Maine. No cars in sight. Driveways silent. The entire city seemingly asleep as I made my rounds.
Pepé Le Pew seemed too intent on hunting up some breakfast to pay much attention to me, so I just kept walking, nice and slow. A few minutes later, as I returned home along the same street, the skunk had moved a block or so to someone’s front yard, where it continued its search for food.
I read somewhere that skunks, which dislike us as much as we do them, have poor eyesight but excellent hearing. So the best way to avoid a confrontation is to warn them of your presence, by singing or humming. That is supposed to get their attention and send them scurrying on their way.
Whistling Dixie probably won’t protect me from a Ford F-250 when it’s barreling down the road in the predawn darkness. But maybe the caffeine-starved guy behind the wheel isn’t the real enemy after all.
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