Horton is a Hoot

And so it was that Moe was standing half-way down my walkway with his cellphone in hand. I like Moe. I’ve met him before. He delivers packages. He’s from Syria and he works three jobs to support his wife and child. There’s another child on the way and he smiles widely over that fact as he tells it as if a blessing had been bestowed again just that instant.

His is a smile that dazzles between the beard and moustache and it always comes with a chuckle or a laugh and sometimes a story. But not this time.

He was wild-eyed and frantic. Standing in the gloaming like a statue. Not one of those greek statues really. More modern, with cellphone and earplugs and a baseball hat and a package. But rigid like stone. Quiet as a city mouse in a Montreal apartment on a Sunday morning after the riots.

I came out because I got a text message from him saying something about help please.

You know, there always comes a time in life when you really really really realize you’re not-like-other-people. Not the painful self-consciousness of youth when you think you’re the only one with freckles on your kneecaps or that horrible one when you’re older and no one likes your tattoo or that really horrible one when you think your bathroom decor is out of fashion and that there is nothing you can do to make your sensible shoes appear elegant. (That stage where you become a snarky bitch and not too much bothers you really anymore.) ((Except maybe unnecessary wars and bureaucratic paperwork and all this ruckus about pronouns and elections and government fraud and foreign interference and global agendas and climate change and hypocrisy on every corner dressed in pearls and Merino wool.))

No…this not-like-other-people thing really hits with the utter reality of knowing that you’re on the front stoop of your hovel at dusk trying to explain to a Syrian refugee that the skunk’s name is Horton and he is a guard skunk. He lives somewhere maybe under the front stoop or maybe there in the ravine. I haven’t figured that out yet. He arrived when the 24 raccoons arrived. The ones that arrived after I started feeding one which mysteriously alarmingly multiplied into two dozen practically overnight.

Horton ate with the raccoons. He was the least of my problems. My problems started when I stopped feeding the raccoons. They can be vindictive little creatures if you offend them. But that’s not the point and is an entirely other story which I might relate one day when I can get over the trauma and the joy and can settle into forgiving myself for being an absolute idiot. A well-meant idiot I suppose is better than a malevolent idiot but that is neither here nor there.

I was trying to explain to Moe that I didn’t have 24 raccoons anymore but for some reason he was kind of preoccupied. Horton was between Moe and I with his stripes glistening with the impending moon and his splendid tail swept up in a soft finesse of fur as if he was about to do something. But I knew, and he knew that he wasn’t going to do a darn thing. He was just vain. Showing off. He does that. He knows how handsome he is in just that very light and was parading his way to the side of the house slowly for admiration.

“Look,” I said to Moe. “Don’t walk toward((s)) him. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t say anything.” Skunks only spray when threatened and Horton was actually very brave and nonchalant about most threats. And besides that, I knew for a fact he’d sprayed the neighbour’s dog just two days ago and it takes skunks 10 days to refuel their stinky glands. It’s not like they can call for an immediate refuelling truck or anything like those stratotankers used for the fighter pilot jets in the Middle East nightmare. I think it’s ten days to refuel a skunk. Well, I’m not sure how many sprays they can do before they run out of fuel but that’s not the point I explained to Moe—this was Horton. And Horton is mostly benign if you admire him but leave him alone.

For some reason Moe didn’t seem to be listening. He tried to smile but just left the package on the walkway and backed up all the way to his car which he swiftly leapt into so he could immediately ride off in all directions. So I looked at Horton and Horton looked at me and we both smiled. You see, Horton is a quiet guard dog. And he chases off most humans amazingly well. I never have to worry really about robbing, kidnapping, tourists or rampaging mobs.

Although… I haven’t quite researched skunks much. How many babies do they have? And is Horton a male, a female or LGBTQ2S+? How many skunks fit in a den? And what do they do when they’re bored? So… I was on Google looking up how skunks can spray 10 feet and how they hiss and stamp their feet first as a warning… I was looking this up when I realized… no one else is looking up the sex life of skunks at 7:30 on a Saturday night except for people who are just not-meant-to-be-like-other-people.

Oh I suppose I’m in for another lesson because there is no fool like an old fool repeating the same well-meaning idiot thing but I gotta tell ya, skunks really do make good guards. But that is not something anyone would believe me about, especially in polite company. Skunks just don’t come up in cocktail party conversations much, no matter how hard I do try to change this sad fact.

Just for the record, It just smells like cannabis for heavens sakes! It’s not like you hate that smell do you? Well.. some do I suppose but anyway…. I wonder if Moe is ever gonna deliver another package…. Oh well… that’s another day.

I am still trying to ascertain if he was more afraid of Horton or of me by the time I finished explaining it all….

Here’s an earworm:

Sylvia Shawcross is a writer from Canada. Visit her SubStack if you’re so inclined.

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