Noctural visitors

Last night, as The Husband and I were having a quiet evening in the living room, the motion detector light on the patio came on, and we soon heard a noise. It was one we hear regularly, the sound of a cat food can being nosed across the concrete of our patio. Sometimes, it's Harley, Pop-Pop's black lab (he loves, loves, LOVES cat food). We can always tell it's him without getting up to look, because he stirs up a louder clatter with the can, and we can hear his slurps.

When the sound is a more delicate scrape, it could be Lucy, the cat, coming back for a snack, or it could be one of a number of other critters that haunt the woods behind our house. Sometimes, it's a stray cat. Other times, it's a raccoon or 'possum. We shoo the stray cats away (not that they stay gone), but we like to watch the 'coons and 'possums.

Last night, it was the delicate scrape. My husband leaned forward in his chair to look out the living room window. I was fooling with something in my lap, and was only vaguely aware of him standing up for a better look. A few seconds later, I heard him do a deep-chest gasp, and he said in a low voice, "Oh, NO!", as if he'd seen Sasquatch. He took off in a hurry toward the kitchen.

I sprang off the couch - "What is it?" - and bolted to the window.

"It's a SKUNK!" he called, as loudly as he dared.

"NO WAY!" I said. I put my forehead to the glass and tried to peer along the back wall, where I'd set the can when I fed the cat. And, sure enough, there it was, as big as a tomcat, fluffy, and black as coal except for the wide white swooshes down its sides.

"I'm going to take its picture!" I said, and I ran to get the camera.

"DON'T SUPRISE IT WITH THE FLASH!" the husband warned. "He's already got his tail fluffed up."

Thankfully, the beast meandered away without loosing its ammo. This is the best I could do without a flash: