The third night of our camping trip, our faithful skunk arrived just as soon as the sun set.
Once again, Hubs wasn’t there. He was either taking the trash up the hill or in the restroom. Can’t remember.
This time, I slowly rose from my chair and watched our skunk sniff hopefully for crumbs under the picnic table.
When Hubs returned, I motioned toward the skunk and then his camera.
“Blog post,” I whispered. “I need a picture.”
“OK,” Hubs said. “Get the lantern and see if you can get close enough to shine a light on him.”
This is the scene that unfolded:
As the skunk ambled around out tent, I scurried behind him with my lantern. Hubs, hot on my heels, was clicking furiously.
“I need more light,” he muttered.
So I climbed onto the picnic table and held the lantern right over the skunk’s head.
“Did you get a good shot?” I asked.
“Not really,” Hubs said. “But you can tell it’s a skunk.”
We plopped into our camp chairs, satisfied.
The skunk followed us.
He stood there, staring at us expectantly.
“Well no wonder he’s not afraid,” I said. “Looks to me like he’s used to being fed by campers.”
After a few more minutes of wistful staring, the skunk wandered off.
“You know, he’s actually kind of cute,” I noted.
“Let’s call him Maxwell,” I suggested.
“How about Max?”
“You can call him Max, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s Maxwell,” I replied.
Tomorrow: Maxwell is a very, very bad boy.