We get a lot of skunks 'round these parts. A lot. They come out at night and get caught in headlights, scurrying across the road; some animals, we know, learn from experience, and the smart skunks know to time their Frogger-esque runs to avoid getting pulped. The near-constant acrid reek of skunk juice that hangs over my neighborhood speaks volumes - there aren't a whole lot of smart skunks.
This particular skunk looked like he died a peaceful death - also a rarity, like a guy dying of, say, a massive stroke in his sleep at Verdun. No blood, no guts. I'd driven by him a few times and the first time I thought he actually was asleep, taking a skunky nap by the side of the road. He was lying underneath a realty For Sale sign. The sign had a portrait of the realtors, a married couple, perfectly coifed, smiling the glassy-eyed empty smile of cultists. Or the smiles worn by the soldiers in the World War II books, mugging for the camera while hovering over the body of a dead SS officer. What an odd place for the skunk to expire, right there under the realtors' sign. His was a death out of Gatsby. The Eyes saw him leave this world for the next.
I didn't really know why this particular skunk affected me so. Until it hit me, much later, with certainty. Someone had left him there.
