More than a past number of decades that I can remember, I was bamboozled by some slick-talking older cousins into a venture, a snipe hunt, “guaranteed” to earn me a few dollars and an exciting event to store away in my memory banks.

They drove me down a winding washboard gravel road about midnight, then I was strategically placed in a wooded grove with a couple other “snipers” my cousins had managed to hoodwink. We were instructed to stand by with open burlap bags while the beaters (my cousins) herded the long-billed feathered projectiles toward us and, with luck, into the sacks. As we patiently waited, something moved in the surrounding brush. We hunkered down, ready to bag a few snipe.

But instead, before our straining eyes, a family of five striped skunks drifted across the moonlit meadow. With a couple of owls providing background music, the skunks formed a loose circle, noses pointing toward its center. As if on cue, they hopped forward, with their legs rigid and their tails wagging like ostrich plumes, until their noses touched. Then, in chorus-line style, they hopped back, forming the outer circle again. We watched, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as the skunks performed this strange minuet a half dozen or so times.

Simultaneously, all tails dropped to half mast and they marched in procession, nose to tail, in our direction. Instead of standing our ground and allowing the skunks to go their way, we turned to flee. That decision might have been okay if we hadn’t spun around and bumped into each other. Down we went, arms flailing and legs churning. As if on cue, the skunks put their backsides to use and fired several salvos at pointblank range.

I covered my face with a bandana as the stinging, acrid fluid slammed into us. With eyes burning and lungs screaming for fresh air, we scrambled for the creek, bellowing, cussing, and retching every step of the way. Water helped some, but time would be our only salvation. I suspect my cousins had belly-aching laughs when they heard about our encounter with the striped carnivores. They were right about one thing about their promise – it was an exciting, memorable event, and one “guaranteed” to last for many decades.

A member of the wide-ranging weasel family, the striped skunk, Mephitis mephitis, is probably one of the best known of all North American mammals. Unlike many other animals, it has adapted to man’s activities. Its present range extends from central Mexico to the Northwest Territories in Canada, and encompasses all of the continental United States.

A skunk’s fearsome armament consists of two grape-sized glands, situated on either side of the rectum, embedded in the rectal muscle. When contracted, the skunk can direct two streams of fine spray up to 20 feet. The glands are connected by ducts to a pair of small nipple-like jets, which are hidden when the tail is down. When the glands are compressed, they can fire two burning bursts simultaneously or singly, depending on how precarious the situation is. The striped carnivore can fire five or six bursts of the devastating fluid without reloading.

The vile concoction, known chemically as butyl mercaptan, contains a skin burning sulfide which can cause temporary blindness and loss of consciousness if a relatively weak animal is sprayed. The odor clings like mustard gas and it won’t scrub, scrape or launder away with conventional cleaning products. Acidic agents such as tomato juice or vinegar can at least bring the smell into a bearable range.

The skunk’s defensive mechanism has long been feared, as well as misunderstood. Normally peace loving, the skunk discharges its acrid secretion only as a last resort. If pushed, the furry sharpshooter lowers its head, stamps its front feet, and sometimes emits a warning growl or hiss. Warning number two is more suggestive, especially when the skunk raises and arches its back and white plume high above its back. Then, if a compromise still can’t be reached, it snaps into a U-shaped position, with head and rear directed toward the enemy, and fires one or more scented missiles.

Despite the skunk’s malodorous reputation, it performs beneficial deeds such as feeding on agricultural insect pests (grasshoppers, potato bugs, and Japanese beetles). The skunk’s normal diet includes field mice, bees, insects, and various larvae. Additional components of the diet include fruits and berries, bird eggs and nestlings, amphibians, and carrion. On the negative side, skunks are classified as a major carrier of the rabies virus, to which all warm-blooded animals, including man, are susceptible.

Skunks generally live in the abandoned dens of coyotes, foxes or other mammals and only occasionally excavate their own dens. They also use stumps, rock piles or refuse heaps, and sometimes even set up housekeeping under a house or porch. If a skunk scratches out its own den, the burrow is usually simple in design and not well engineered. But one taken over from another animal may be quite elaborate, containing from one to five well-hidden openings that lead to a system of tunnels and chambers. The female lines one of the chambers with leaves or grass and uses it for a nest.

Skunks begin to breed in late February or March after emerging from their dens. Squealing, growling, cuffing, and head-on tackling with snapping jaws accompany sparring jousts between competing males. Despite the spirited display of aggressiveness, there seems to be a gentleman’s agreement among the combatants, and they rarely resort to chemical warfare. Vigorous copulations highlight mating seasons, and four to six young are usually born in early May. Newborn skunks weigh about one-half ounce. Although blind, helpless, and almost naked at birth, they display the characteristic black and white pattern of the adult. They are fully haired in about 13 days, and their eyes and ears open in 17-21 days.

The only serious predator of the skunk is the Great Horned Owl, which lacks a highly refined sense of smell, which is typical of most birds. Skunks were once heavily trapped; their soft fur was cleverly dyed by furriers to imitate that of more valuable furbearers. Reprieve for the striped carnivore came when a federal law was passed requiring the identity of the furbearing animal. Needless to say, sales rapidly plummeted, and nature’s most dreaded marksman once again became the least bothered animal on earth.