Skunk Problem

When George Herbert was in his little English parsonage, I am sure he had all kinds of problems to deal with, but I would bet a thousand pots of Marmite (miss it terribly!) that he never had to deal with a skunk. For the last two years, a skunk family has been practising NFP very badly below my porch. Last year a good parishioner of mine caught four skunks - three babies and an adult. They don't like meat in the trap, or vegetables - they like peanut butter. Well, this year they were back, I don't know if it was Mr or Mrs Skunk that we couldn't catch, but I wanted them caught before they starting going forth and multiplying again. For any English readers who have never smelt a skunk, it is quite dreadful - if you happen to pass one which has been squished on the road, the smell travels on the car for miles. Imagine the smell of fox, and magnify that x2. Or, am I the only one who thinks that when you open a bottle of Corona beer, the first delicious aroma is that of fresh skunk spray? Try it. The good news is that we finally caught a great big skunk - I think it's the patriarch. What happens to them? Please don't get all Greenpeace and Animal Rights on me - otherwise I'll send them around to your house. Let's just say they go to meet their Maker - and it's swift.
Father Dwight, of Standing on My Head fame, tells me that to blog successfully, whatever that means, one must post every day. Even if they are dreadfully dull? So far, that has not happened (not the dullness, we've managed that quite Oscar winningly) - and I don't think it will. Some blogs seem to feature a prize winning essay every day, some are more diary style, some a sort of stream of consciousness. Maybe mine will be a mixture - forget the prize winning essays. Talking of Father Dwight, I'm looking forward to his visit to Little Siberia next week. He's coming to talk to our priests and deacons about preaching. I'm eagerly anticipating discovering how flat his head really is, as he spends most of his time upside down. We might, after a Bellocian supper, go and have an upside down swing in Rosie O'Donnell's depression harness.
Talking of Belloc (like the link?) - he is my absolute favourite essayist. I prefer him to Chesterton, and a recent article in The Spectator agreed with me! Two great quotes from J.B. Morton's memoir of Belloc: prior to a good drink, the great one would say - "We will now drink, or perish miserably in the attempt." In difficulty or real danger - "A few kind words from the Vicar of Lower Beeding, and all will be well!" He apparently said that one time when his boat, the Nona, was about to sink in a terrible storm - don't you love him?