Skunk Frisbee

            I hurled the skunk in the air and watched Fritz leap. Over the coffee table. Scooping the skunk up with his nose and gripping it in his mouth. The skunk squeaked. It had six squeaks when I bought it. Now—only four because he’d maneuvered two out. I bought the toy skunk with no stuffing for a reason.  In a matter of minutes, stuffed toys would transform my living room into clouds. I’d find myself on all fours, crawling around to pick it up while Fritz hopped on my back, pushing me, face first, into stuffing, claiming his authority since I’d stooped to his level. But not today. Today, I initiated a game of Skunk Frisbee.

            I tossed the skunk in the air and observed Fritz. He lost sight of the skunk and pranced in circles, searching. He found it in the corner and ran at full speed, bouncing off the corner of the couch, clinching it in his teeth. When I reached for it, he pulled away. A game of come-and-get-it. I leaned over, yanked it from his clinch and started the Skunk Frisbee all over.

            I pitched the skunk in the air, as Fritz snatched it up and ran back to me. I got a good grip on it, tugging. I tugged once and Fritz jerked his head from side-to-side. I tugged twice and he pushed his claws into my wrist. I lost my grip. He ran away at full speed through the house, hiding the skunk in the corner, barking that intruder bark. He growled to teach me a lesson and retrieved the skunk from the corner.

            When Fritz approached, I snatched the skunk and pretended to sling it in the air, tucking it behind my back. But, he caught on to my trick and dug his teeth into my arm. My shrieks scared him away. I motioned for him to come back. Then, snatched his paw and dug my teeth into it. He yelped and hid under the coffee table.

            Commercials flashed on the television. One, in particular, about animal brutality. I raked my eyes at Fritz, still whining—eyes hung low to the floor. Remembering when I’d eaten a hamburger after