Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
Folk myths about skunks are numerous, and almost all deal in one form or another with the skunk's
ability to spray its scent. One of the commonest and most persistent is that skunks can't spray if their
hind feet are lifted off the ground; supposedly, if one can only grasp a skunk's tail and hoist before the
skunk unleashes its scent, the hoister is thereafter safe from the skunk's quite understandable displeas-
ure. (A related myth holds that a skunk can't spray if you step on its tail.)
Canadian biologist Chris Heydon, who has worked extensively with skunks, gives heartfelt assur-
ances that this myth is decidedly untrue! Indeed, striped skunks have been known to walk on their front
feet and occasionally spray from that position—a behavior typical of their cousins the spotted skunks
(see page 166).
The popular perception of skunks is that they're quick to unleash a blast of spray if disturbed. In fact,
skunks are generally very reluctant to spray, and rarely react in haste unless danger seems sudden and
imminent. Usually a skunk will face a perceived threat, arch its back, elevate its tail, stamp the ground
with its front feet, and shuffle backward. Only then, if the source of danger moves closer, will the skunk
use its chemical defense.
It's fairly uncommon for humans to be sprayed by a skunk. Indeed, skunks seem to be remarkably
tolerant of humans and spray us only
in extremis.
There are even credible reports of people who have
stumbled over skunks at night without invoking mephitic retaliation.
One bright moonlit night, our older son decided to take a shortcut through the woods from the college
library to his dormitory. At one point he leaped over a log and, to his horror, landed beside a skunk! He
recalls thinking, “Oh no, it's all over!” but the skunk, with remarkable forbearance, did nothing. This is
only one example of the tolerance that skunks frequently display toward human disturbance.
On another occasion my father-in-law, who kept a couple of cows, went to separate the cream from
some milk. When he approached the old-fashioned, crank-operated separator, he was somewhat non-
plussed to find a skunk comfortably ensconced beneath it. It became apparent after quite some time
that the skunk had not the slightest intention of vacating the premises, so my father-in-law approached
cautiously, separated the milk and cream, and departed, leaving an unperturbed skunk, still beneath the
separator where he had found it.
There are limits to a skunk's tolerance for humans, however. Take the case of Old Floyd. Old Floyd
was a hired man who worked on our farm long before I was born, but his legend lived on. Something
had been stealing eggs en masse from the henhouse, and it was finally deduced that the culprit was a
skunk.
Old Floyd was—unwisely—given the task of rectifying this problem, so he set a trap near the point
where the skunk was evidently entering the hen house. Something of a commotion near the henhouse
became audible the next night, so Old Floyd set out with a long, stout stick and a lantern (this was in
the days before flashlights).
Now, Old Floyd was noted for his clumsiness, and soon after he left the house, a far bigger commo-
tion ensued. When my grandfather went forth to investigate, he found that Old Floyd had managed to
