Precious and The Skunk

I grew up on a farm in a small town in the Midwest. By the time I came around, we no longer had any hogs or livestock, just corn and wheat and beans.(That's soybeans for those of you who don't know, although Grandma could grow you some mean green beans out of her garden!) Anyways, there seemed to be no limit to what sort of creatures you might see looming about out in the country. Possums, "coons", ground hogs, coyotes, even the occasional fox or deer might wander into the yard towards the evening or in the early morning. Some of these creatures living among us could be dubbed cute and were somewhat welcome as long as they knew their place, such as the rabbits and squirrels. But according to Grandma Edith, there was one particularly revolting animal to be detested far above all the others. That, my friends, was the skunk.
We had a black and white cat named Precious that used to prowl around at night with the skunks according to Grandma. I offered the somewhat obvious explanation that, to be fair, maybe poor Precious was a little confused since she did resemble a skunk more than the average cat. Grandma just sniffed and frowned whenever Precious came in from one of her rendevous with her somewhat objectionable friend. I tell you, prejudice is not limited to just humans; Precious's sister, Inky, also looked down upon the two for mingling behind the old pole shed out back. Perhaps she was thinking of the future posterity, who would be neither skunk nor cat, and that was the reason for her obvious disapproval. However, Precious was "fixed" pretty soon into the courtship so that was no longer a pliable excuse for Inky's racist behavior.
One day, I was playing outside with the neighbor girl, Tara. We were jumping on my big trampoline near the old chicken coop when we saw a small black and white figure creep steathily along the outmost corner of the building. The pungent odor confirmed my worst fears. I screamed and leaped off the trampoline, mid-jump, nearly breaking my ankle from the force of my feet smacking the ground. I ran into the house with Tara bringing up the rear. Grandma met me on the porch, grabbing my arm and forcing me to speak of what was making me shriek at a pitch that would wake the dead.
"SKUNK!" That was all I could utter, and sadly, that was enough. Not one to sacrifice time when action was needed, Grandma grabbed her broom and was out the door, followed by me and a somewhat bewildered Tara. Now you'd think that the skunk would have retreated back into its lair; no such luck. There it stood, for all to behold, right smack in the middle of the driveway between the big Sycamore tree and the mailbox. Her broom rendered useless in this case; Grandma set it down against the house and searched for a more appropriate weapon. Her eyes landed upon the shiny metallic chrome on the front of her maroon 1985 Caprice Classic. She never hesitated; instead she barked at us to hurry up and get our butts into the car. We obediantly followed, too frightened to utter a sound. I had barely gotten one leg into the back seat next to Tara when we were off. Grandma slammed that old grocery getter into drive and floored it in such a way that would have been the envy of every Nascar driver this side of Indy. The skunk, finally sensing his life could be in some sort of danger, began to meander towards a drainage pipe near the ditch towards the road. Tara crouched down low into the seat and buried her head in her arms. Suddenly, it came to me, what was going on. It was at about that time that Grandma attempted to run over the skunk.
I responded in the same way those people do in that proverbial story of the passerby gawking at the gruesome train wreck. My head automatically turned to look behind and I was amazed to see the skunk merely tottering uncertainly directly in the middle of where the Caprice had been seconds earlier. Grandma remained undaunted. She expertly whipped into reverse, riding the accelerator the whole way. That did it. There was a thump and then a blood curdling shriek. It wasn't until after the noise ceased that I realized it had come from me. Tara was the first to leap out of the car and inspect the damage; Grandma followed suit and went into the garage to get a shovel and a trash bag.
The only thing left to do was hide the body. I don't remember watching her shovel it inside the black oversized bag; perhaps my memory blocked the horrific image permanantly. I do recall the smell, which wasn't as strong as one might expect, and the long voyage down the road to the dumping grounds. The dumping grounds are different when you live in the country and simply refer to the nearest creek bed, or "branch" as grandma called it. No one was suspicious of what we were doing down there in broad daylight. Grandma merely tossed the sack down and that was that. No one came by to question us, as I was afraid might happen, or even suspect that a murder had taken place. It was hard to look Precious in the eye after that; we never were sure if it had been her lover or just a relative. Tara is grown now, with a child of her own, and still makes an effort to speak to Grandma whenever she runs into her at the store or elsewhere. I wonder if she remembers that fateful day when two nine year old girls and a sixty six year old woman commited the only act of vehicular manslaughter I ever hope to live to see.

.....DISCLAIMER.......
I love animals probably more than I do people, and although this story goes against what I believe about animals, I feel in this instance knowing my Grandma the way I do that the humor, albeit in poor taste, outshines the cruelty. I apologize if anyone is offended; I wish I could say I made the whole thing up but it isn't in my nature to lie.