I should be a farmer, because I love the smell of polecat.
Better known as skunk, this “American musteline mammal” is said to eject an “intensely malodorous fluid when startled.”
To me the smell of polecat is anything but malodorous. I find it bitter but rich. To me skunk is a savory aroma even as it gently turns my stomach toward vomit. It is of the earth, thickly organic, and to me it smells like life itself.
From a young age I remember the smell of polecat. I encountered the scent on many car trips outside of Tampa or through central Florida. One time my mother and I stopped at a roadside fruit stand on Highway 27 near Miami. Like many such vendors found along Florida’s highways this place sold honeydew, strawberries, watermelon, and other such stuffs grown on nearby farms.
We stepped out of the car and could not help but notice the powerful smell overwhelming the place. The smell was so rich and fragrant to me that I actually thought it was the smell of the honeydew or the strawberries.
“What’s the smell?” I asked, breathing deep. The vendor, smiling nervously, said “polecat!” Having never heard that word I thought polecat was some kind of sugar cane or abundantly sweet thing grown with honeydew and watermelon.
Filling my lungs with the earthy air I said “That’s really nice.”
I did not understand why but the vendor and my mother both looked at me with crinkled brows, quickly changing the subject to strawberries.
Later in the day I learned that polecat was skunk. I was told that most “normal people” would describe the stench as foul, putrid, acrid, and other such incisive obloquy.
I silently, happily disagreed.
Most recently I encountered Eau de Skunk en route to New York from Boston. The aroma, so foul to everyone else in the car, woke me from a light sleep. Conversation stopped and the car fell silent as the smell of polecat filled the air. The sudden silence of conversation revealed to me the sounds of the vehicle in motion: wheels thrashing, wind urgently pouring through the narrow opening of the sun roof.
My voice stepped into that silence with “Skunk! Man, I love that smell.” I breathed deep to prove my love for the scent the others found repulsive. Glances of uncertainty, light chuckles of disbelief passed through the car, inviting me to elaborate.
“I love the smell of cow shit, too. And horse shit, when it’s a well fed, healthy horse. That stuff even looks amazing.”
I wanted to tell the story of the night a friend and I, 18 years old, drove to Elfers, Florida; a town of mystery and insularity that captured our young imaginations. I could not get to that story before someone changed the subject — to what I do not remember. Strawberries?
A year or so later I spotted a giant mass of shit at Calvary. Far too big for dog shit, I wondered aloud what earthly beast could have dropped such a mammoth lode, and why would such a creature have passed through Calvary. I briefly imagined clydesdales or other ceremonial horses that might be part of a funeral procession, quickly dismissing such an unlikely scenario.
Then, as now, I wished I knew more about shit. Anthropologists, I would think, could identify the source of most dung laid before them. This turd at Calvary, shiny and dark (almost black), had been artfully deposited with a sphincterial twist. A Hershey’s Kiss shaped flourish exactly in the center reminded me of how a bartender might draw a shamrock in the head of a pint of Guinness.
I would probably feel differently about skunk juice if I was attacked and soaked in the stuff. Skunkblast in one’s face sounds like no fun at all, but the smell of skunk from a safe distance ranks high on my list of earthly delights.
