Deer Run Trail, By David R LewisNodaway Trail, by David R LewisOn the Calico Trail, by David R LewisOn the Payback Trail, by David R LewisOn the Ogallala Trail, by David R LewisOn the Killdeer Trail, by David R LewisOn the Cutthroat Trail, by David R LewisEndless Journey Toward an Unknown Destination, by David R LewisIncidents Among the Savages, by David R LewisFear of the Father:  Call Me Crockett, by David R Lewis

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The Smell Will Tell

Here Kitty, Kitty

I never did understand why Steve Seymour wanted a skunk.  When I was small, my Uncle Floyd had a skunk, de-scented, that lived in the house with him and his wife, Flo.  It was a low-slung, black waddle with white stripes that would occasionally scuttle out from under the couch, putter around aimlessly for a time, and not allow me to pet it.  It wouldn’t cuddle, fetch, or do tricks.  I didn’t understand the worth of owning a skunk.  I still don’t.  I have known three people and several dogs that have been involved in bad business with skunks and, save one, none that I’m aware of willingly have gone back for more.  The one who did go back, a dog, a black lab/Chow crossbred to be more precise, has been dealt with harshly by skunks nearly 20 times.  She doesn’t seem to mind, or perhaps she just doesn’t remember.  She is, after all, part Chow.

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