Skunkville

For a couple of weeks now, while walking my dog or riding into work, I’d get overwhelmed by the stench of skunk.

Damn, I thought, this place is overrun with skunk.  I figured there were a horde of ’em living in the city.  Marking up the place and most likely getting smashed on the roads.  Funny how I never saw a carcass.  Quick city-wise coyotes and foxes, I guess.

As you may know, I just moved to foggy Santa Rosa, a city ten times the size of the town I came from, but still a rather typical, suburban Northern California place.  Believe me when I say this – it is very conservative and very family-values oriented.

When I first moved here, I noticed that a lot of the homeless and teenagers flagrantly smoking pot along the river walk and in the parks, but this is California, right?  It’s only a misdemeanor and, frankly, there are far worse criminals that I want the fine police officers of Santa Rosa to be going after.  So, I never really thought much about the extensive pot use.  It’s not like I don’t have my share of pot-smoking friends.   But, I’ve never smoked, and I’m just not that clued in. 🙄

This afternoon, my husband and I drove to the other side of town to get a router for our new apartment.  Less than 1000 square feet and we need a router.  We are way too digital.  So, there we are, driving down Highway 101 and right smack in the middle of Santa Rosa on the side of the road, there, right there!, sat a Ryder rent-a-truck filled with marijuana plants.

We smelled it long before we saw it.  In stop and go traffic, I say to my honey bunny, “Oh, dear, I hope it’s not an accident.”

My husband doesn’t answer, his eyes glued to the CHP (California Highway Patrol) cars parked ahead on the shoulder.

“Phew!  Dang, those skunks!  I wonder if someone tried to swerve when one of ’em ran out on the highway.”  I shook my head in astonishment that such a small critter could do such damage.  I silently hope that no one got hurt, including the skunk.  My husband pulled down his window as the opened truck came into view.

“Are those plants?” I ask.

A smile cracks my husband’s face.  “You’re right.”  He breathes in deep.  “Smell that skunk.”

“Ug.  It’s horrible.  Close the window.”

Police dogs sniff around the trunk, and an officer carries a bag covered plant out onto the side of the road.

“Is that…marijuana!”

My husband laughs.  “Yeah, didn’t you know?”

He goes on to explain the life cycle of the marijuana plant and that during its flowering stage, it smells just like skunk.

The Other Kind of Skunk

Really?  Is it just me that doesn’t know that?

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