Wild Horses On The Salt

5

5Later that evening, the skunk rose from a hollow-log burrow beneath thick, browned bushes that had turned with the low nighttime temperatures. It didn't see well but required no visual cue to locate its target. The animal waddled along a line of mesquite trees that bordered a rocky stream, which sometimes provided a tasty crayfish or two, then cut across a small open field. A circle of rectangular white boxes stood in the center of the pasture.

The skunk hurried now, excited by the smell, its keen olfactory senses equal to its excellent hearing. A soft sound brought the animal to an abrupt halt. It sniffed at the air but didn't notice the twin green orbs glowing from beside one of the boxes. After a while, the skunk took a tentative step. Then another. She pointed her snout to the sky, from where her only true predator generally attacked, and listened for the whoosh of massive wings, a great horned owl that could easily carry her off.

Though the eyes in the darkness still watched, she sensed no danger and toddled up to the first apiary. The skunk used her strong claws to rake the box. Had it been summer, the guard bees would have been alerted immediately, a danger pheromone released, and she would have quickly been under attack. But it was winter in the desert, and though daytime temperatures might reach into the eighties, the area could be plunged into the thirties before dawn. The bees were groggy with cold.

To any other creature, the slow response of the insects would be a pleasant turn, but the skunk was hungry and impatient. She continued to scratch at the box, and when her claws found a weak spot she attacked more vigorously. Soon, bees trickled out of the hive, and she was ready. Using her paws, she scooped up the insects and devoured them several at a time. Though some of the angry bees attacked, her thick black and white fur protected her from most of their assaults, though occasionally, one might sting her nose. Still, the pain was worth the bounty.

The skunk pulled at the hole she'd created and, with much effort, dragged out the bottom drawer of the apiary. The compartment tilted and fell, its front edge thumping on the ground. Angry bees swarmed her now, but they couldn't prevent the skunk from getting what she wanted: the larvae resting in their tiny circular slots drew her, the golden honeycomb that nourished the young insects a mere afterthought, though the skunk was quite happy to eat that, as well. She sucked the baby bees from their waxy bassinets, then chewed and spit out the bits that were indigestible. All the while the insects continued their relentless but ineffectual attack.

Later, when the skunk had eaten all she could, she waddled toward the fence that enclosed the field. She knew where she was going. Had been there before. Again, the green eyes followed.

The orange tabby—a hefty cat with a massive head and an impressive set of whiskers—sat placidly beside the aluminum water dish that butted up against a fencepost. The cat licked one paw as the skunk approached.

Had a human been there to witness the interaction, they might have been surprised because the skunk trundled right up to the cat, and the two animals touched noses. Then, side by side, they drank from the dish, after which the two animals diligently groomed themselves. While this relationship was not necessarily the norm, the cat and the skunk had become acquainted when they were both young, and since they were linked quite closely on the evolutionary tree, they sensed no oddity in their relationship.

The fledgling beekeeper who thought the cat might deter the skunk from its night-time predations would have been amazed.