Saint Bob, patron of skunks
I stepped off my front porch to walk out to the mailbox. Half-way down the driveway, a spotted skunk slowly trundled its way toward the road. It seemed to vaguely notice me, and accelerate its pace. I heard the tire noise of a vehicle about to round the curve and pass by my house. I immediately froze. The skunk also seemed to notice that I was no longer advancing toward it, and likewise slowed its pace toward certain doom. A pickup truck sped past the house two seconds before the genetically oblivious skunk reached the road. The skunk appeared to not regard the noisy, speeding pickup truck as a potential hazard, and lazily crossed the road without any awareness of how close it had come to becoming a roadkill smudge.
Bob, protector of fresh air
I stepped off my front porch to walk out to the mailbox. Half-way down the driveway, a spotted skunk slowly trundled its way toward the road. It seemed to vaguely notice me, and accelerate its pace. I heard the tire noise of a vehicle about to round the curve and pass by my house. I immediately froze. The skunk also seemed to notice that I was no longer advancing toward it, and likewise slowed its pace toward certain doom. A pickup truck sped past the house two seconds before the genetically oblivious skunk reached the road. The skunk appeared to not regard the noisy, speeding pickup truck as a potential hazard, and lazily crossed the road without any awareness of how close it had come to becoming a roadkill smudge.
Bob, protector of fresh air