Chickens Gone Wild
by Bert Brenizer as told to the Hanson boys in the 1950s
“Wake up!” I heard Hattie calling to me through the fog of sleep. It was 1923 and we were spending our first night in our brand new big farmhouse on Evergreen Avenue.
“What’s wrong?”
“Listen! Something’s in the chicken coop scaring the chickens.”
Barely awake, I got out of bed wearing just my red flannel underwear, stumbled to the back porch, grabbed a match and lit the barn lantern, the familiar smell of kerosene fumes waking me up. The lantern dimly lit the way. The wet grass was cool on my bare feet.
As I reached small coop, I heard all forty chickens in a panic. Was it a rat, a weasel, a mink, fox, dog or bum? All at one time or other had designs on Hattie’s chickens.
I was not prepared at all, in my bare feet, without a club or gun, I cautiously opened the door and held the lantern inside and peered into a scene of chickens gone wild, flying and squawking in panic.
I saw and smelled it at the same time, a skunk, with its black and white glistening fur right in front of me inside the door greedily licking a broken egg. It saw me and raised its tail only two feet away, aimed right at me. Without thinking I reached out and grabbed the upraised tail, dimly remembering the old story skunks can’t squirt if held by the tail. The skunk snarled and twisted wildly, dangling from his tail trying to bite me, but there was no spray! “Hah! A skunk held by the tail really can’t spray,” I thought smugly.
The skunk wriggled violently, snarling and biting the air threatening to wriggle loose at any time, and even without spraying stunk something fierce.
“Hattie! I got a skunk by the tail. He’s getting away! Bring me the stove poker!” I hollered as I headed to the house. Hattie met me on the porch with the heavy iron rod. I set the lantern on the kitchen table to strengthen my grip.
“I can’t let go or he will stink me up.” He made a violent twist right then and I barely held on. I grabbed the poker and hauled off and cracked him right on the head. He immediately went limp and died.
“Get that thing out of here!” yelled Hattie gagging from the sudden blast of skunk spray spreading over me and her brand new kitchen.
”Well, I found out something the hard way, a skunk don’t spray when you hold him by the tail and he is alive. But when he dies something changes to let the stink shootout full blast! Hattie moved back to the old log house for two months leaving me in the new house until we both aired out. She barely talked to me the whole time! Over here in the entryway 30 years later you can still smell it.”
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| Bert Brenizer and Hattie Noyes Brenizer |
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