It was Sunday, 22th of July, 33rd day of summer. On the day of the Skunk, you have 61 days for seeking after summer bliss, as does Pepé Le Pew.

Last Sunday night, I spotted a skunk browsing in the roadside weeds
and I was thankful the street lights were illuminating the road. I
imagined a scenario where I would be riding blissfully along in dark
and run into a skunk. My only hope would be to escape in a direction
where its nozzle wasn't pointing. Tonight, I encounter the stinky odor
of a skunk that had sprayed, but it was already lighter from mixing
with the night air. I kept my eyes open wide and my ears open wider.

I met a pair of young women with backpacks tonight, at the base of
Grand Haven Road, and the pair were looking for a gas station with a
Western Union outpost. Maybe the two were around twenty; they claimed
to have driven up to Michigan from Tennessee with friends, who dumped
them. So a friend back home was offering to wire money for a Greyhound
ticket. Ferrysburg is about fifteen miles south of the Greyhound
station in downtown Muskegon, and the two had no money and didn't even
know if hitch-hiking was illegal. I told them to head into Grand Haven
and buy a cup of coffee in the Rendezvous and stay all night, safe if
not home sweet home. I also let one of the girls use my phone and I
spared a ten dollar bill. They seemed legitimate enough and I could
use a bit of karma right now.

A skunk tribe once marched underneath my study window when I lived in
an apartment with my first, and only, wife. The tribe would travel
with the edge of the building, hugging close to the wall. So I would
see them from my study window. In retrospect, I regret calling the
apartment complex manager, who called Critter Control and had them
trapped. I started to miss the nightly runs.