Fystie

BY: Willis Peterson

Fystie an explosive four-footed chemical plant STORY AND PHOTOGRAPHS By WILLIS PETERSON

We have those kind of neighbors again. You know the kind. The first day they look you over. The next day they're all over the yard. By the third day you can't be insulting enough to get rid of them. It happened to us before. But, alas, this time they brought all their youngsters. It got to the point where we had to keep the doors hooked. Beleaguered and imposed upon, there was little we could do without being downright unfriendly. Yet, you can't be an isolationist forever. We couldn't lick 'em, so we joined 'em. To our amazement and relief we have found our neighbors to be inoffensive creatures, though audacious and quite presumptive. Practicing Teddy Roosevelt's axiom, they "speak softly but carry a big stick." These fellows swing a club far more sinister than spear or cudgel. Attacking with potent chemical gas guns, our guests, when aroused, just let you have a mephitic blast between the eyes. With such an onslaught of evil vapors, they shortly become the master in every situation.

By now you've probably guessed it. The folks about whom we speak are the common striped skunks. Even Fystie's scientific name, Mephitis mephitis, makes no bones about it, literally meaning "noxious or pestilential exhalation from the ground."

Carefully harbored in two glands, the secret of his weapon is a yellowish liquid fired in double-barreled fashion from twin nozzles located on either side of the anal tract. Shot out under pressure by quick body contraction, the solution rapidly vaporizes after discharge to become an enveloping gas, clinging, stinging, nauseating. Effective up to twenty feet, it is scientifically called n-butyl mercaptan. Sulphur constitutes a large percentage of the fluid.

Fystie is not sneaky and he gives fair warning. As a matter of fact, he may tolerate considerable teasing before he unleashes his vehement barrage. Repeated, vigorous stamping of front feet along with menacing, unfurled tail "on the ready" proclaims the intimidating ultimatum. If this ominous threat does not produce sufficient respect, he efficiently and fervently tutors his antagonist with a spray of fluid.

Though he may be facing his assailant before he fires, he can, with incredible speed, twist his body into any desired angle to execute an odoriferous trajectory. Exploding salvos straddle the tormentor with never a miss.

So penetrating are the appalling fumes that they may be perceptible a mile away, and so persistent that clothes he has defiled can not be cleaned. The fluid itself can create serious inflamation of the eyes.

Paradoxically, the same evil-smelling substance, when refined, is often the base in making fine perfumes. In this form it is diluted into a tincture solution, and employed as a fixative in the same manner as musk, ambergris and castor. And so, the very clinging powers of the skunk's scent can be used in formulas for pleasant and sweetsmelling odors as well-hardly plausible to the rash person who has had a disastrous encounter with Fystie.

Though Fystie is never one to actually pick a fight, he does assert his curiosity to a point where he can always call your bluff. Force him, get him in a corner, cut off his retreat, and believe me there's going to be one victim wiser after he has scrubbed and buried his clothes. Immediate reaction is to shun forever this fourfooted, explosive chemical plant.

All of the skunks have and use this weapon. This defense mechanism, this peculiar equalizer makes Fystie nature's exponent of laissez faire. You go about your business and I'll go about mine.

Skunks have often been referred to as "polecats" or "civet cats." Both are misnomers. The polecat and civet cat are mammals of the Old World. Early migrants from Europe applied these names to similar-appearing animals which they found in America. These names have stuck and are still used colloquially, though both polecat and civet cat are entirely different from our native, North American skunks.

From a physical standpoint, all the skunk species are characterized by having elongated toes, complete with long nonretractable claws. These, the animals apply expertly in searching for food as well as in digging. Their bodies are covered with black hair, which is patterned by broad and narrow white stripes or oblong spots. Amount of white will vary considerably with each individual.

The common skunk has two stripes emanating from a solid white patch on the nape of the neck. Extending along the sides of the back, the design continues along the tail. This plume-like appendage is covered with dense hair, perhaps three times as long as body fur. When he is alarmed the banner is held stiffly aloft, hair sticking out at right angles.

The tail is half again the length of his body and, in normal circumstances, held in a slight arc. Proud of its stately appearance, Fystie rarely lets it trail upon the ground. To a great extent, his emotions can be detected in its movements. As a magician flourishes his wand, a flick of the tail is expressive of thought and action.

Fystie is somewhat nearsighted. Eyes are small, blueblack in color, beady in appearance. He depends more on his nose for guidance than any other sensory organ. In his nightly excursions he ambles slowly. It is really more of a cumbersome waddle. His body lists from side to side as weight is shifted in a lopsided shuffle. When running, both fore and hind feet move in unison.

Though Fystie inhabits all of North America with the exception of Southern Mexico, he has several cousins which are more native to the Southwest. The handsome hooded skunk, for instance, resides throughout the central portions of New Mexico, Arizona and Mexico. It is somewhat more slender in build than the common striped skunk. Carrying aloft a superb plume, twice as long as his body, he derives his name from a white cape which is worn about his head. Fur, glossy and silky, is considerably longer than the striped skunk's. This hooded relative has so many color phases that some individuals may be entirely black.

A second kinsman also ranges throughout the central portions of New Mexico and Arizona but extends his range as far as South America. The hog-nosed skunk, as its name implies, has a nose which is quite mobile, similar to the snout of a pig. He is often called the "rooter skunk" or "hog skunk." As well as inheriting fondness for rooting, he also has acquired a characteristic of the badger. Powerfully built in the shoulders and with sturdy muscled forelegs, this strength is parlayed to advantage when digging. Enormous claws are exceeded in length by no other skunk.

He also differs from other skunks in that his hair is considerably coarser. His pelt does not have market value for furriers, though in South America it is worn by the Patagonian Indians. Usually his back is solid white instead of striped. Another unique feature of the hog-nosed skunk is apparent immunization to rattlesnake venom.

Fystie's third cousin is the spotted skunk, also a native of the Southwest. More graceful and agile than other clan members, it may even climb trees. However, its real claim to distinction is a hand-stand act it performs while emitting its odoriferous assault. It is often referred to as a "phoby cat." Why this particular member of the skunk family has been designated as a "phoby cat" is a moot question. All skunks are equally susceptible to rabies. However, the spotted skunk, with its crazy-quilt patternof black and white, presents quite an animated picture as it scampers through the night. Its lively actions make it more conspicuous, and hence more suspect, to observers than other skunks.Probably the greatest reason why skunks become infected so often with rabies is the very obvious fact that they refuse to run from an enemy, or recognize danger. The rabid animal is certainly not rational. Should anything be in its way, the unfortunate creature will, in all probability, be bitten, and likewise become diseased. Even the skunk's overwhelming defenses are useless in such a struggle.Our early Southwest settlers were especially concerned about the danger of hydrophobia, since in those days many pioneers had to sleep on the ground during their travels. To them, skunks meant more than just the possibility of gas attack; their bite could be fatal if the animal were rabid.

Once readily pelted by frontiersmen, skunk fur is still in demand. In many of the colder regions, Canada for example, skunk trapping is an industry of considerable importance. More than a million pelts are taken annually in North America. Skunk farming has become a profitable business. Tended animals become quite used to captivity and rarely display fits of personality differences. Formaldehyde is used to eliminate all odors from pelts. The finest skunk pelts are often dyed and sold as imitation furs of a higher quality.Practically all North American Indians have conceived legends and myths concerning the activities of the skunk. The word "skunk" itself is derived from the Algonquin tongue, meaning "he who defiles." Our Southwest Indians of the Mesas have their myths as well. From the "How and Why Stories" by Pablita Velarde in Indian Life, comes a rather humorous tale on the genus of Fystie's odor.

"Skunk liked nothing better than to play jokes on the other animals and his sense of humor always spelled trouble for them, until one day he made the mistake of playing the same trick twice on Mother Stinkbug. The day before, Skunk had seen Mother Stinkbug and her children working very hard pulling home an ear of corn. He followed along behind asking question after question but they were too busy to answer and would not stop to play. So while they were walking, Skunk kept picking off a kernel of corn and eating it. When she reached home, Mother Stinkbug looked at the corn and found to her horror that Skunk had eaten all of the kernels. And it made her angrier to hear Skunk laughing loudly to himself as he walked away. But she was determined to teach him a lesson. So Mother Stinkbug gathered all her most powerful medicines and went our again the next day to get another ear of corn. Only this time, she poured her medicine into each kernel of corn and waited until Skunk came again. Then Mother Stinkbug and her children began pulling the ear of corn and when Skunk asked her how she liked yesterday's corn, she did not answer. This was a great surprise to him as he expected a sound scolding. So he walked along beside them talking and laughing, and ever so slyly eating away. When Mother Stinkbug and the children were inside the house, it was their turn to laugh because outside Skunk was rolling over and over in agony. He moaned and groaned, complaining how badly his stomach ached. Mother Stinkbug knew that the medicine would not hurt him too much but it would cure him of playing any more jokes. And so it was, because Skunk is no longer the practical joker he once was and he has never lost the offensive odor that Mother Stinkbug gave him."* Be that as it may, even with such a formidable weapon skunks, when found young, preferably before weaning, can make delightful pets and, if handled by the same person, can become so congenial in the house they would never need to have a descenting operation. In our own experience we have had several which had the run of house and yard. None ever hinted at reprisal.

However, there is always danger of some stranger startling the animal. Deodorization is a surgical operation, but simple, one which any veterinarian can perform with little harm or danger to the unknowing patient. patient. The elimination of these scent glands will brush aside the spectre of catastrophe in having such a pet about the house-at least for yourself.

I am reminded of one time when, as a youngster, I had a tame skunk. It used to sleep in back of our couch in a little box which I had placed there. On one particular day we had an obnoxious female visitor with a somewhat strident voice. Her continual chatter in high-pitched tones apparently disturbed the secret sleeper behind the divan. Innocently, he emerged from where the unsuspecting caller was sitting. Complete, electrifying silence reigned in the room. The skunk sensed something was amiss and scrambled hastily back to safety, narrowly missing the lady's legs. This was too much. Our guest. suddenly remembered a dozen appointments and, with quick apologies, left.

It is strange about Fystie and his scent in that he may resort to his musk mortars several times in a week, yet his fur is never laden with odor. Another strange thing, I've never witnessed one skunk wield his scent against another. They get into actual fights, but like our modern political states, they do not want to resort to massive retaliation. The only explanation, I feel, is "they can't take it either."

Their duels are fascinating to watch because of the similarity to the movements of a square dance, particularly when more than two skunks become involved. At first they stand off a foot or so from each other, stamping their feet. Without warning they rush at each other with their plumes held aloft. Side-stepping quickly, they churn around, nipping at each other.

When more than two are engaged, this wheeling becomes a swirling pattern of black and white motion. They squeak in rasping voices while intricate patterns form and dissolve, only to spin again. Occasionally they raise up on their hind feet and paw at each other, then frantically wheel about. Engaging in another dizzy circle of motion, they deliver lightning-like bites while passing in their do-si-do battle. These bouts last for only a few minutes at a time, but may be repeated intermittently throughout the night.

When young, they play in this manner. They learn adroitly how to conquer one another when the stakes will be high in the adult skunk world. There will be a time when they will have to challenge and be challenged for the evening's leavings of a camp site.

For the most part, all skunks are nocturnal, much to the relief of the outdoorsman. But when the sun sets, Fystie and his fellows take many campers by surprise. In bold frontal assaults, skunks prowl about picnic tables and tents. Discretion is the better part of valor should the camper find his area invaded. The only only alternative is to pack all food back into the car, or put it away in tightly covered metal or wooden chuck boxes. Probably one of the most harrowing experiences for a neophyte camperoccurs when skunks find their way into the rent during the night.

Checking up on things

This happened to my wife and I on our first camping trip. She had carefully stored all our fresh food in a corner of the tent. Not wanting to be an "I told you so" type, I didn't mention it, but I thought we might have a visitation, for no matter how tightly you close a rent, skunks insidiously find their way in if food smells emanate. And so it was.

That night my wife whispered, "There's something in the tent with us." I knew immediately what it would be and considered it better to tell the dreadful truth.

"Shhhh. It's probably a skunk, don't make a move."

I slipped to the tent flap and opened it wide, then got in back of the intruder so he could make a clean getaway in a hurry. I flashed my light and clapped my hands. His plume went up. Our striped poacher swerved about and vanished.

The young are born in April and May with, perhaps, even earlier weeks heralding their birth in desert regions. They comprise a litter called kits, with five to seven being an average number. Blind and naked, the newborn constantly chirp, making noises like a nest of wood-peckers. By the time they are a week old, fuzzy-like hair clearly shows designs of black and white. By four weeks they are beginning to poke their heads out of the den, usually an opening between rocky prominences, or a cavity dug under protecting roots of large trees.If they stray too far, their mother hastily goes after them, and rides herd back to the doorway. If she has a particularly stubborn offspring, she loses all patience and hauls him back by the scruff of the neck. By the time eyes are completely opened and bodies are well furred, the mother begins to take them on nightly excursions.

This is when their formal training begins. She teaches them how to smell out crickets, beetles and larvae by raking through dead leaves. With long claws she uncovers many other insects and nourishing budding plants. Old stumps are favorite feeding tables where she expertly shreds and slashes through crumbling wood fiber for grubs.

She is never too concerned about the type of food available. A clutch of eggs from some ground-nesting bird is a decided delicacy, but this rare omelette may be topped off by finding and polishing old bones left from the table of some coyote's dinner a few days previously.

The very adaptability toward all sorts of food, as well as living conditions, has kept the skunk fairly numerous even with vanishing wild habitat. In fact, here in Phoenix a skunk family made the news columns and even the wire services, by being cohabitants with a wealthy family living in town. The skunks took up residence in the foundation and cellar. The squatters defied every effort of the family as well as the humane officers to remove them. It wouldn't have been so bad had there only been a single pair, but there were a number of relatives, and all banded together to resist every form of eviction. The upshot was they were painfully ignored. They finally left of their own accord.

Their affection for living in close human proximity is looked dimly upon by many farmers and ranchers. There is no question as to the skunk's fondness for eggs, and for this reason he is pursued unmercifully when found patiently patrolling hen houses. But the fact remains, a skunk family living under the barn can consume hundreds of pounds of crickets, grubs, mice, beetles and worms, all of which attack stored grain and hay. It would be difficult to measure the good they do in dollars and cents, but it would be much more than a few eggs.

By fall, the litter has acquired all the knowledge their mother can bestow, and each begins to go about his own business to a more or less extent. Maturity is reached by spring.

In the colder portions of the United States hibernation begins with the first cold spell. However, it is not a deep sleep such as the bear or certain members of the rodent family make. A few days' thaw, and Fystie unrolls and waddles sleepily abroad for a brief snack. Then he leisurely heads back to his chamber and prepares himself for another forty or more winks. In this dorment position he remains in a tightly rolled ball, securely wrapped by plumed tail. As body heat cools down and respiration slows up, the tail performs an important function by insulating nose, eyes and ears from excessive cold.

In the warmer portions of the United States he may not hibernate at all, or it may be a matter of a torpid sleep, a few days at a time.

When winter's severeness is overcome by spring's soft overtures and irresistible moods, Fystie finds the old trails again. With sheer joy and new purpose in his step he embarks on nightly missions. Every step forward unfolds new mysteries in the spring night to be tracked down and solved by his talented nose.

It is possible Fystie's new youngsters may be your neighbors.

the end LOOK LONG AND DEEP

Look long and deep. Take this tree to your being's core. For in whatever life may follow sleep The trees are not companions any more. We will no longer be this transient thing, Sentient, and thus in need of comforting. We will not need the shade of boughs at noon, Nor solace of the gnarled trunk's burly strength; We will not need the blazing logs as soon As shadows reach out to the night's own length; Not need the green in spring, the gold in fall, Nor any light among the leaves at all. We will be then of substance such as feeds On something other than these precious needs . . . But now, for memories to keep, Look long and deep. -ROLAND ENGLISH HARTLEY

SENILITY

Wind stalked the night With moans and groans, The old, old wind With creaking bones. -THELMA IRELAND

WHITE NIGHT

The grass On winter hills Is frosted with moonlight Sifting through the snowy mountains Of cloud. -VESTA NICKERSON FAIRBAIRN

TUMBLEWEED

It moves o'er the prairies As though pushed By a child's unseen handNot above the ground, Yet not quite touching. It is the citizen Of ghost towns, The plaything Of a gentle breeze. -ROBERT B. Fox

THE BURRO

Abuse him not if some fine day He plants his feet and wills to stay. One Balaam rode, with knowing stare, Saw a forbidding angel there. Mock not the voice with which he calls, Though musicless its accent falls. You cannot tell what mightiness He may be trying to express. He may be thinking of the night He saw a great star shining bright, Like a celestial diadem, Over a stall in Bethlehem. Or he may be, in his own way, Trying to tell you of the day He heard shouts he cannot repeat, And saw palms waving down a street. -CLARENCE EDWIN FLYNN

MORNING JOURNEY

A quartz-clear ambiance of light dissolves the quail-gray layers of night; the ribboning road, through wind-swept space, is lined with gleaming barb-wire lace; a roadrunner bursts like a feathered flare, raising dust in the juniper air; a far-off mesa, lifting high, shows gold-thread sage stitched on the sky; white-faced Herefords, nose to tail, plod single-file on the road-side trail; and fence posts drawn like pencil marks form podiums for meadowlarks! -MARGARET GRAHAME COLLINS

Yours sincerely

RANCH WIFE: . . . What a wonderful magazine! It is a must for us. Ranch Wife by Jo Jeffers in the last September's issue is superb and the illustrations by Ross Santee are delightful as his things always are. When I'm reincarnated I want to be a ranch wife! Mrs. Samuel Nelson Pickard Neenah, Wisconsin Opinions. . . Accept my enthusiasm and esteem for the thrilling spellbinder by Jo Jeffers. That girl is a wonder. She can put more life into fewer words than anyone else I know. Do keep the girl busy, please! Tied in with Ross Santee's drawings was surpassing perfection. Paul J. Linsley Whittier, California Opinions. . . What a splendid article of Jo Jeffers. Can we not have more of her writings on her ranch life? Do not let her get away from you. Miss Susie A. Carrell So. Weymouth, Massachusetts Opinions. . . Even though I am not a cowman-but raised on a ranch-I think the article by Jo Jeffers the best I have ever read, factual, interesting reading and just about perfect. Ralph Vawter Napa, California Opinions. . . Enjoyed very much the story Ranch Wife by Jo Jeffers. She has a very nice down to earth style, so to speak, to her writing which I found a real pleasure to read. Hoping to find more of her work in one of your future editions. Mrs. Frank Bregovits Muskegon, Michigan Opinions. . . In the September issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, there was an article Ranch Wife by Mrs. Jo Jeffers. It was brilliant. It was interesting, educational, and entertaining. It was one of the best articles we have come across this year. Mrs. Jeffers should rewrite the article, adding a great deal of detail with which she is familiar, and make a book. The facts should be treasured in permanent form. Her delightful sense of humor and adroit handling of subject matter is great. A dozen persons have read her article in our copy of the magazine and they unanimously enjoyed it. Ray C. Schroeder Ormond Beach, Florida

POUR ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE:

BACK COVER

"WHEN EARTH AND SKY MEET" BY J. L. HOLLENBECK. Photograph was taken from the viewpoint on Yarnell Hill, U.S. 89, about eight miles north of Congress Junction. August skies in Arizona, when the summer storms come rolling in, can be very dramatic. Yashica 635 camera; Ektachrome; f.16 at 4th sec.; f3.5 Yashinon lens; late August; ASA rating 160.