Did you know a group of skunks is called a Surfeit? An overabundance of things. Other names, according to the Wild West Web, include an “Array” (referring to how families sleep in a den) and a “Stench,” which seems rather rude if not oafishly obvious.
This is what went through my mind when I saw the low-slung mass of fur crossing the road ahead of me. I slowed, frantically checking my mirrors to determine whether the car following closely behind had noticed my caution. Then I stopped, completely, while continuing to monitor the rearview mirror for signs that the driver reflected in it would try to inch around me.
My inner voice hammered loudly in my head: Where are the caution flashers? Switch on the flashers!
I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first: at a distance, it seemed to be some strange kind of fur snake, but up close, I could tell it was a mama skunk slowly bringing a train of six kits across the abnormally unbusy two-lane road.
Which is why I felt mostly safe coming to a full stop so as to let the animals cross to the other side.
I saw the other driver relax when the parade I was witnessing finally processed past the edge of my bumper and into his field of vision.
I could tell from his expression he’d never seen anything like this either, and he was no longer perplexed by my maneuvering.
I haven’t always been so lucky. Well, I have been lucky, but the Gaze of raccoons that wandered into the path of my car late one night in the summer of 1991 left their mark on my psyche forever.
Truly, every bump I’ve felt under a tire after catching a glimpse of a hop-toad or a chipmunk, or a zig-zagging squirrel in the glare of my headlights has etched themselves indelibly on my soul.
Which is probably why I’ve tried to think about all of the other wildlife encounters I’ve witnessed (joyfully) while on my “commuter safari.”
The turtle I helped cross the road near school.
The pair of rabbits that seemed to greet each other in the crosswalk in town.
The fox twins playing near an alleyway in the city.
The moose, moseying in the median somewhere on I-95.
Oh, and I nearly forgot the red-tailed hawk that dropped its dinner - a furry little package I assumed was a field rodent - on my windshield as I cruised home one evening on 787. … probably slipped my mind because I felt bad for the mouse.
Finally, there was the solo white-tailed deer that leapt straight up, landing safely and soundly on a rock ledge six or seven feet above the sheer slate wall that bordered the roadway. At the time – the fall of 2018 – it seemed miraculous.
Of course, it’s not a marvel … it’s just multiplication.
As we meander around and carve new pathways into nature, nature has no choice to meet us on the road.
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