I have a funny story to tell with regard to coon hunting.
Back in ‘48 my grandfather often took me coon/possum hunting (hence, the screen name) with our hounds.
One night the dogs treed something and I, with my trusty BB gun in hand—I was 8 years old and too young for anythng more powerful—went flying through the woods, disregarding my grandfather’s calls to not get ahead of him. I got to the place where the dogs were, spotted some eyes up the tree and fired. At about that time my grandfather caught up with me, just in time to get sprayed by that skunk up that tree.
You cannot imagine how powerful that scent is when you get directly sprayed with it!
The dogs scattered. Didn’t see them again for days. When we got back to the house grandmother contemplated whether to let us in. Grandfather never forgave me. And I don’t blame him.
Heh. Jerry Clower would have been proud of that story.