Then, almost as if by design, my first tough ranch decisions and duties unfolded before me. Duties carried out by my hands, hands directed by the will of an owner, the will of a father. We had a henhouse, a converted outbuilding set up on a knoll above the old farmhouse. Far enough to wake you in the morning on your way to get eggs, scuffing along the dirt road, slapping skeeters. One morning I pushed the pine door open and as light spilled across the floor I sensed the sharpness of skunk and saw the hens huddled in a corner. A little skunk appeared, an adolescent, with whiskers like a kitten's and egg on its face. "Get rid of it," my father said on the phone. "He'll eat every last egg. " We didn't really need the eggs, of course. My father was a retired physician now playing at rancher, and raising farm-fresh eggs was part of the game. It is true that we grew barley that we sold to Coors (perhaps sometimes even for a small profit), and moving miles of pipe through the dank, mosquito-infested grain was one of my jobs, but I always understood that our lives and livelihoods did not depend on the ranch. Reluctantly, I knelt on the feather-strewn wood slats and investigated. I discovered a family of skunks, five or six at least, under the floorboards. If I even considered the idea of trying to relocate them, I quickly realized that was impractical. I was alone out there. I walked to the shed and saw the rusted iron muskrat traps hanging from sixteen-penny nails. I took one down, compressed the side springs, opened the jaws of the leg-hold trap and imagined the snap, then decided against it. What does one do with a trapped skunk spraying everywhere? Instead I grabbed the pellet rifle and headed back to the henhouse, pumping as I walked. The little stinker was near the door, ducking underneath when the pellet struck him. He fell onto his hind legs and rolled over. The maimed animal clawed the dirt and I reloaded and pumped quickly, wanting to get it over with.
106 I BUDDY LEVY