Am. So. Traumatized.
I threw open my bedroom curtains this morning to behold a dark blob floating in the pool. At first thought, I thought it was one of the retired duck decoys my hubs thought was funny to float in the pool. Upon closer inspection, I could see both of the plastic mallards sitting on the pool deck. After a quick mental inventory of the other pool toys, I had to conclude that our floater was organic. And big.
Once the sleep fog had cleared from my eyes, I could just make out a white stripe. Great. A skunk met its great reward in my pool. And to add insult to the injury of my very soft heart, it was a baby skunk. Wah. I don't know why the demise of a small mammal is so much sadder than the millions of stiff frogs I have fished out, but it is. Again, I say wah.
I fished the little guy out with the skimmer net and was hit with the disposal dilemma. What to do with a small (smelly) dead thing? I feel bad, but not bad enough to actually dig a hole. (Am spaz with shovel.) Trash? The pick-up isn't until Friday. I imagine two pounds of baby stinker would be hellacious by Friday if left in a hot trash can. In Texas. In summer.
I was left with the undignified option of the over-the-fence-fling. After a word or two by way of eulogy (so. very. soft. hearted.), I played a not altogether successful round of fling the skunk. Instead of the graceful loft into the dense undergrowth, the poor little critter fell with a thunk onto the cleared area not ten feet from the back fence. In plain view. And in smelling range. (Sigh. Shoulders slump.)
I trudge all the way back up to the gate and plod around to my now dirt-covered dead guy. So not the send off I had hoped for. I gather him up in my net and lob him back into the woods, hopefully to take his place (quick and not-very-smelly) in the food chain.
Apparently, my house has a sense of humor. It got in one last dig before we left. Awesome.