Skunked! by Jacqueline Kelly Page A

when someone goes in their pen, even to feed them. And I can’t put you in the root cellar. Our cook, Viola, goes in there all the time to fetch potatoes. So I guess it’s the barn for you, my friend.”
    If the kit had any thoughts about this, he kept them to himself.
    Travis sneaked into the barn. He hurried past the horses and the milk cow and the barn cats to the farthest corner, where he kept his tame rabbits. It was dark and gloomy back there, and a new addition to the family would be less likely to be noticed. He hoped.

    He spoke to his prizewinning Angora rabbit. “Bunny, I want you to meet your new friend.”

    He held the skunk up to Bunny’s cage. Bunny’s nose twitched once; the kit’s nose twitched once. And then they ignored each other. So much for new friends.
    Viola rang the dinner bell on the back porch. Travis shoved the kit into the empty cage next to Bunny’s, saying, “Mother gets upset if we’re late to the table. After we eat, I’ll bring you your dinner, once I figure out what that is, of course.”
    He hurried inside and took his place next to me at the long table crammed with hungry brothers. After the blessing, he whispered, “Say, Callie, what do skunks eat?”
    I gave him a wary look. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œUm, no reason. I’m just curious.” He went back to eating his ham and potatoes and pretended not to notice that I was now staring at him in alarm.
    â€œTravis,” I hissed, “tell me you didn’t.”
    â€œDidn’t what?”
    â€œTell me you didn’t bring a skunk home,” I said, trying to whisper, but I was so anxious it came out a sort of strangled whisper-scream.
    Mother said, “Is there something wrong? Do you two have something you wish to share with the rest of us?”
    â€œNo, Mother,” we said, and stared at our plates.
    Later when Mother was busy talking to someone else, I whispered to him, “There’s no skunk, right?”
    He didn’t answer.
    â€œRight?”
    He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. I could see the answer in his face.

3
    After dinner Travis grabbed a paring knife and stole an apple from the pantry and ran to the barn. The kit stood on his hind legs when he saw Travis and tried to reach through the wire with his paws.
    â€œDon’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about you. Look, I brought you an apple. I hope you like it.”

    He was so busy slicing it that he didn’t hear me sneak up behind him.
    â€œIdiot!” I cried, and he jumped about a foot in the air.
    After landing back on earth, he said, “Gosh, Callie, you scared the life out of me. And it’s not very nice of you to call me an idiot.”
    â€œI’m calling you an idiot for the simple reason that you are one. Nobody in their right mind brings a skunk home. Can you imagine what Mother and Father will say? You’ve got to let it go this instant before it sprays someone.”
    The baby grumbled and reached for the apple.
    â€œLook, Callie, he’s hungry. We have to at least feed him.”
    Travis unlatched the cage and held out a slice of apple. The starving kit took it in its tiny paws and ate the whole thing in five seconds flat. Then, with twitching nose, it held out its paws for more.

    It really was very cute. And it didn’t seem to smell. And normally no one visited this corner of the barn except Travis. And owls and coyotes hunted nearby at night. And that’s why I agreed, against my better judgment, to keep it overnight and let it go “first thing in the morning.” (This makes me such an idiot I can barely believe it.)
    By the time morning came, Travis had named the kit Stinky, which wasn’t strictly true.
    Let me tell you something you might not know: The rule is that once you’ve made the mistake of yanking a wild animal out of its natural habitat, you have to look after it. You become responsible