My Take Tuesday: Hazel and the Skunk

As a teenager growing up in the small town of Castle Dale, I looked forward to summer at the end of each school year. Summer meant freedom—from homework and from sitting at a school desk.

For me, a perfect summer day included vanilla ice cream, snow cones, and strawberry shortcake. Tranquil Castle Valley evenings offered frequent opportunities to grill hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks, alongside corn on the cob and thick slices of juicy Green River watermelon.

Summertime also meant hard work. In addition to irrigation and farm chores, several elderly widows in Castle Dale would hire my siblings and me to mow their lawns each week.

Hazel was my favorite.

Her small house stood just north of the new recreation center. She felt like family to me. Her friendliness and kindness were evident every time I mowed her lawn.

Though modest in size, her yard was lush and carefully maintained. Along the south side of the property, tall trees stood like sentinels, shielding the house from the persistent Castle Valley wind. Beneath their deep green canopy lay a perfectly manicured garden, with neat rows of Swiss chard, chives, radishes, peas, carrots, spinach, and lettuce.

Her lawn was also difficult to mow. Flowers and bushes demanded precision with the mower and edger. Despite my best efforts, I would occasionally graze her chives, and the unmistakable onion scent would immediately betray me.

“Oh no—you hit my chives!” she would say.

I suspect she planted extra each year, knowing a few would inevitably fall victim to my mower.

After finishing, Hazel would bring out red punch and cookies. I would sit on her living room couch, enjoying the refreshments week after week. She would ask about my life and share stories of her Seely and Livingston pioneer ancestors who helped settle Utah and build the Salt Lake Temple.

Hazel loved cats. A small door in her kitchen led to the backyard, allowing them to come and go freely. A large bowl of cat food sat in the center of the kitchen for any passing feline.

One day, Hazel mentioned how quickly the food was disappearing. She had been refilling the bowl three or four times a day, only to find it empty each time she returned.

As I sat on the couch with a clear view into the kitchen, I noticed movement near the bowl. I turned to look.

The largest skunk I had ever seen waddled up and began gorging itself.

“Hazel!” I shouted. “That’s not a cat—that’s a big, fat, humongous skunk!”

“My laws!” she gasped. “Get it out of here!”

I jumped up, and the startled skunk made a dash for the door. Its considerable girth prevented anything resembling speed. Its belly nearly dragged along the floor as it lumbered away.

When it reached the cat door, the front half slipped through easily. The back half did not.

As the animal forced itself through, it simultaneously unleashed a voluminous spray from its scent glands—in my direction. The blast filled the entire kitchen instantly.

If you’ve never experienced skunk spray up close, it is unforgettable—a thick, oily, sulfurous assault on the senses. There is nothing worse than having that smell inside your nose.

Hazel and I quickly retreated out the front door. We propped open the kitchen door and set a fan on the floor to air out the house.

Then we laughed—hard—for hours.

Hazel passed away shortly after Memorial Day in 2003. I miss her dearly.

Each summer still brings back fond memories of Hazel, that obese skunk, and the all-you-can-eat Mephitis buffet.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM