“Broadstripe, Virginia Smells Like Skunk” by Skunkbomb

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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and today’s story is

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“Broadstripe, Virginia

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Smells Like Skunk”

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by Skunkbomb, who can be found on Twitter @skunkbomb123,

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who Edited the anthology Give Yourself a Hand for Goal Publications,

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and you can find more of his stories on his FurAffinity

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as Skunkbomb123.

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“Broadstripe, Virginia

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Smells Like Skunk”

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by Skunkbomb Skunks had taken over Broadstripe, Virginia.

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When I woke up each morning,

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I would take a deep whiff of country air

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and smell their stink.

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You’d have to be blind not to catch sight of those white-striped critters in town.

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When I ordered a meal at the diner, I would sometimes get a stray black or white strand of fur on my plate.

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God had bestowed unto me, the noble bloodhound,

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a nose that could sniff out anything, including the truth.

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Skunks ruled the town, and dagnabbit,

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I was going to prove it.

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Hubert, my grand-nephew, walked in the door sometime past eleven

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smelling of some raccoon he had bedded the night before.

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He may not hold my same views on what the skunks are doing to this town,

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but I was doing my best

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to pass down my knowledge.

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“Come see what I’ve done read,”

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I said, holding the book up.

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Hubert glanced at it.

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“Why do you have a book on building outhouses?”

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I chucked it and grabbed the other one.

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“Go on, have a look.”

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I opened it on the kitchen table. “This here

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town was founded by an upstanding hound dog by the name of Uriah Grady

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after the Civil War.

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Before he ran for mayor, some lowlife named Paul Underhill

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—P.U you see, there’s your warning flag—

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asked to join the town, and he brought all his skunk neighbors with him.

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Look at this picture. It’s nothing but them black and white scallywags.”

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Hubert took a look. “Grand Uncle Vernon,

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the book’s in black and white, and that there’s a badger.” I squinted

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at the picture.

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“That’s open to interpretation.

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So thanks to the skunk invasion,

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Underhill beat Grady in the election for mayor and won the right to name the town.

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I never done see a hound dog win an election for mayor, but there’s always a skunk on the ballot.

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They have to be planning this out.

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I see them gather together in their homes or their stores.

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Well, I’m putting a stop to it!”

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Hubert picked up his banjo and plopped on the chair in the living room.

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“In that case, pick up some tomato juice at the general store before you go bothering those skunks.”

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“That’s like folding before the poker game begins,

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and I’ve got a hand of all red cards.”

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I grabbed my cane.

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“But I will be heading to the store anyways. We’re out

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of bread.” # It was a beauty of a walk into town.

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My hip wasn’t giving me too much trouble,

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and there were sheep-like clouds in the sky.

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It was the calm before the storm.

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If I was going to find out about this next meeting of the skunks,

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I had to go where the skunks were.

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In the past, I tried visiting their homes, but they were all so rude.

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It was all, ‘What are you doing here?’ or ‘It’s 10:30

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at night’ or ‘Mama says you’re an ignoramus’.

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Skunks were always in town though.

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All I had to do was follow my old sniffer

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and keep and ear out for gossip.

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I lifted my nose to the wind

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and sniffed. Skunk.

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No surprise there, but there was something else.

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Tomatoes. Wagon wheels in need of some oil pricked at my earholes as I approached the outskirts of town.

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The youngest skunk of the Mire family,

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Theodore—The odor, you see,

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bad news written all over him

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—was pulling a red wagon stocked with crates of tomatoes and cans of tomato juice.

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Is it not a crime that the Mire family farm, a farm

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owned by skunks, was the biggest supplier of tomatoes and tomato juice in town?

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Skunks go around spraying the bejeezus out of honest hound dogs and get richer

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when we hand over our money

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so we can deskunk ourselves.

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If anyone would know about a secret meeting of skunks,

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it would be the Mire family.

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I hustled up and around the skunk and his wagon.

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“Well, good morning, Theodore.”

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The skunk stopped.

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He only had the courtesy to meet my eye for a moment before staring at his feet.

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“Good morning, sir.”

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“My, you’re getting pretty big,”

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I said, luring him

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into a sense of security so he could spill his secrets like beans.

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“How old are you now? 14? 15?” “11, sir.”

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Theodore grabbed his tail

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and brushed it with his hand.

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It was a clever diversionary tactic, that bashfulness of his.

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How was I supposed to know if he was about to

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turn around and spray me

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if he wouldn’t let his tail go up?

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“11? Well, you’re almost old enough for the adult table,”

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I said. Flattery works wonders.

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Trust me. It works on me every day that ends in a y. “Now, if you were joining your parents for, I don’t know, a secret meeting of some sort, where would that be?”

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The skunk shrugged.

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“Gee, if it were a secret, I guess I wouldn’t know either, sir.”

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“But let’s say they done told you.”

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“If they told me, I couldn’t tell you, because it’s still a secret,

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and if I tell you a secret Ma and Pa told me, I’d get in trouble.”

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I crossed my heart. “But you can tell me.

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Then it’d be a secret between us and

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only us.” Theodore

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scratched his head.

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“But if you knew I blabbed about one secret, wouldn’t that mean I could blab about another secret?

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I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”

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“Oh, come on now!” I barked.

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“Stop running me around the bush and tell me already.”

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“Leave the boy alone, Vern.”

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The skunk behind me was broad-shouldered and chomped on a corncob pipe.

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He glared at me behind a set of glasses, but I wasn’t fooled.

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The skunk had the aim of a sniper.

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You could say Obadiah Mortimer

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Mefford was my greatest enemy in town. Well,

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Obie and I played cards sometimes, and we talk about football, and he gave me a good deal on the nails I needed to fix up my shed,

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but he was a crafty old skunk.

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Any time I had the upper hand, he would fight

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dirty. Dirty and smelly.

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Obie knelt by Theodore.

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“Could you stock those tomatoes on your own today?”

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“Yes, sir.” Theodore grabbed his wagon and scurried inside the general store.

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“I was just on my way in to buy some bread,”

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I said, walking toward the front of the store.

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Obie stepped in front of me,

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and leaned in so I could really smell

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him. “For Christ sake, Vern.

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When are you going to leave us skunks alone?

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We’re ain’t dogs, but dammit, we belong here just as much as you do.”

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“Well, hey now, I didn’t mean you skunks can’t live here,” I said, backing up and wrinkling my nose.

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“It’s bad enough you howl about your dumb conspiracies,”

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Obie said, heading back toward his store, “but Theodore’s a child.” My tail

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brushed the inside of my leg.

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The old stinker was right.

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“Hey now, we both got ourselves in a tizzy.

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Look, I’m sorry. How about we make up with a game of checkers?”

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The skunk’s tail flicked.

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“If you’ll shut your yap about skunks for five minutes.

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minutes.” I was wagging like someone half my age.

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Kids don’t know squat, but Obie

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may know something about secret skunk meetings.

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Obie brought out two stools and the box of checkers,

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and we set up the board

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on a stump next to his store.

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I was a champion checkers player.

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While I dazzled the skunk with my expert jumping and king-ing, I’d get him to tell me where his secret meeting was.

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I moved one of my black pieces.

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“Beauty of a Saturday, ain’t it?”

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Obie shrugged and moved one of his red pieces.

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“I’m not complaining.”

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I slipped another black piece forward.

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Quick and decisive was the way to do it so your opponent couldn’t think where to go next.

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“Slow day for you at the shop.

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Thinking of closing early?”

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“Rather not if I can avoid it.”

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“Ain’t you got better things to do on a day like this?”

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I asked. “Places to be? People to see?”

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My tail was wagging something fierce.

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All Obie had to do was make whatever move he had in mind, and then I could jump—

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The skunk jumped over two of my pieces.

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“Son of a biscuit!

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How’d you do that?”

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Obie chuckled. “You’re not watching the board, Vern.”

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“I am too!” I moved my piece into position to jump him.

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“That’s one of my red pieces.”

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I huffed. “My finger slipped, so sue

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me!” In all the 63 years of my life, I had not seen such blatant cheating.

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I wanted to call the sheriff to report a robbery,

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a theft of any decency the game of checkers had.

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No matter what strategy I strategized, Obie captured my poor little black pieces

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with the ruthlessness only the devil would admire.

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I yanked at my ears and gnawed my

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lip. “Sleight of hand? Witchcraft? Divine intervention?

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Which was it, Obie?”

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“You spent more time chatting and belly aching than looking at the board,”

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Obie said, adjusting his glasses.

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“How about you take a walk to cool off?”

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“Afternoon, Obie!”

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another skunk said

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as he walked toward the store.

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“Hope to

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see you at the old town barn tonight. 7 o’clock, okay?”

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Obie sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

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After the other skunk went into the shop,

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I grabbed one of my pieces and slapped it down on Obie’s side of the board.

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“That, my friend, is checkmate.”

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Obie pinched the bridge of his nose.

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“Vern, I know you’ve got some crazy idea cooking in that dinged-up oven you call a head,

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but I’m asking you politely.

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Please don’t come.

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You’re not invited.”

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I got up and walked away, swinging my cane.

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“Oh, don’t you worry, my striped friend. You won’t be seeing me tonight.”

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“Vern, you stay away, you hear?

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And can you at least help me put the pieces back in the box?”

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I chuckled on my way out of town.

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Picking up the pieces was for the loser, and as far as I could see,

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I came out the victor that time.

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I was halfway home before I remembered I forgot to buy bread. #

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The old town barn was, well,

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an old barn. Whoever built it never used it, so the town snatched it up and used it for town meetings, parties,

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and, as I was about to witness with my very two eyes,

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secret skunk gatherings.

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I approached the barn from the back, because

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who can be stealthy going through the front?

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What was I, an idiot?

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The back doors were open just as wide as the front ones, but no one was watching that entrance.

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I crept—that might be a generous description with my knees

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—into one of the stalls.

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If I laid flat on the ground, I could peek under the gap of the stall door.

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I didn’t need my eyes to tell me who were on the other side of the stall door.

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There must have been two-dozen skunks in that barn.

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I wrinkled my nose.

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They weren’t wearing any sort of robes I imagined a secret society would wear,

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but they had pointed hats.

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One of them lit a handful of candles at the center of a table.

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Then they gathered in a circle and chanted.

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I wiggled my finger in my ear and flicked away the wax.

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I couldn’t make out a word they were saying.

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When the chanting ended,

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the skunk in the middle of the circle

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blew out the candles, and the lot of striped ninnies clapped.

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It was obviously an initiation ceremony of some sort.

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The newly initiated skunk wandered over to the stalls clutching a box.

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I held my breath,

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and not because of the skunk smell.

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I let out a sigh of relief when the skunk entered the stall next to me,

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but I kept perfectly still.

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Even in the dark part of the barn,

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the bars between the stalls weren’t thick.

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The skunk might not see me if I didn’t move.

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I squinted at the darkness.

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If the lighting wasn’t playing tricks on me,

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I was sure that was Ethel Wilcox.

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Ethel was easy on the eyes, for a skunk.

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Her fur still looked soft and full, even with the gray coming in.

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Her stripes weren’t stained with the yellowing of old age. Either

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that , or she washed religiously.

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Now, skunks aren’t known for their statuesque figures.

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They’re shaped like pears.

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Ethel though, she had

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gams. She lifted her leg up onto one of the rungs of the stall dividers and

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brushed a bit of old hay from her foot.

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She reached back,

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groping for the zipper behind her dress.

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My tail wagged. “Need some help

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with that?” Ethel screamed

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and bolted out of the stall before I could clap my hands over my big mouth.

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Everything would be fine if I could just explained to Ethel that

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peeking in on her while she was changing

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was a complete accident.

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All I had to do was lie that I was here to be inducted into their society.

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I walked out of the stall.

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As hard as it may be to believe,

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I’ve been sprayed by a skunk before.

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It’s the closest a hound can get to Hell while still living.

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I’d smell the stink on me for months afterward.

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I had no less than a dozen skunks bent over,

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dresses hiked up or pants pulled down, all aiming at me.

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I cleared my throat.

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“Hey now wait just a sec—” The skunks fired. # I buried my clothes in the backyard, got in the tub, and poured

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the cold tomato juice over my face and down my body.

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The dried juice was going to be a pain in the neck to pick out of my fur.

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I held my nose the whole time,

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partially to try to keep from smelling myself and partially to

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block out the stinging in my nose. Hubert, a clothespin clamped on his nose, plucked at his banjo a good 50 feet away on the porch.

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“Good thing Obie let me buy tomato juice from him at this hour.”

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I slumped lower into the tub.

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“Hubert, I done those skunks wrong tonight.”

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“I think the whole town can smell that,”

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Hubert said. “So, you finally learned your lesson?”

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“The Mire family could pay for Theodore to go to college with the money we spend on tomato juice?”

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Hubert shook his head.

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“Maybe, but that ain’t the lesson.” I dunked

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the old scrubbing brush in the tub

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and washed under my chin.

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“Ethel’s got nice gams?”

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“Does she now?” Hubert said,

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a little chuckle in his voice.

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“Wait, no, one more try.”

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“That I’ll need to be more careful snooping around skunks.”

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I bolted up, even if my knees and hip complained.

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“In the memory of Uriah Grady, I own it to all the hounds in this here

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town!” “Dammit, Vernon!” Hubert said, covering his eyes.

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“Don’t stand up in the tub when you’re naked!”

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I scratched my head. “What kind of lesson is that?”

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“The lesson’s that you don’t go around pissing off skunks!”

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“Well, if they weren’t so dadgum sensitive—”

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Hubert growled and picked up his banjo.

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“I’m going out drinking.

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Sleep in the shed for a few nights, you hear?

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Maybe if you get it through your thick head that there’s no skunk conspiracy, I’ll buy you a beer.”

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The screen door slammed behind him.

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I crouched back into the tub.

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After pouring another can of tomato juice on myself,

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I sniffed. I clamped my hand on my nose and howled.

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Whether I wanted it or not, the air in Broadstripe, Virginia would always smell like skunk.

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This was “Broadstripe, Virginia

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Smells Like Skunk”

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by Skunkbomb, read for you by Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion.

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For more stories you can find us wherever you get your podcasts, or on the web at thevoice.dog.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog

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