An Erie Operetta by V.L. Locey

numerous advantages. I strolled up to the door then placed my front feet on it. It didn’t budge. Well, shit. There was the one disadvantage to skunk form. No thumbs to turn a doorknob. I sat down, wrapped my tail around me, and waited. Perhaps five minutes passed before someone ran into the bathroom. I zipped out into the hall and promptly collided with a potted plant. I shook off the impact then trotted away from the main concourse. Using sound to guide me, I continued moving away from the stage.
    I moved with ease, my long whiskers trailing over the flocked wallpaper on the wall. When I reached the end of the corridor, I twitched an ear, sniffed a few times, then bounded off toward the smells of perfume and cold air. Thankfully, this opera house had been built way before fire codes were implemented, so no fire exit doors with large bars to push would be encountered. I began going down a spiral staircase. It was quite murky but since I ran on mostly smell and hearing, the creeping fingers of shadow didn’t deter me. I paused a few times to pick up the subtle changes in the air. I smelled the dank stink of a basement. I continued going downward. A door stood ajar at the bottom of the stairs.
    I wiggled through, placing one dainty paw down at a time. The music was much louder now, as were the voices of the singers. Also, the cloud of perfumed femininity was so thick it made me gag. My perky little skunk nose was much keener than my human one. I grabbed my tail and sneezed into it five times. Eyes watering, I followed the floorboards ever closer to the dressing areas. I kept looking back over my shoulder but saw nothing. Not that I would have seen anything until it leaped on me. With my nose so compromised by the stench of battling flowery scents, I jumped on the first door I came to. It creaked open. I hurried inside, my tail brushing against a scarf draped over the knob. I gave the door a firm shove with my back foot. It drifted shut.
    The aroma of the diva told me I had entered her private dressing room. I padded over to the closet. That door was firmly closed. I thought of shifting back to human but the sound of someone running past made me change my mind. Instead of rifling through Ms. Panagakos’ closet, I leaped up onto the padded seat that housed her derriere when she applied makeup.
    Up onto her makeup stand I went. There were bottles, lipsticks, pancake makeup for the stage, hair clips, bobby pins, and any other manner of womanly thing one could imagine. I stepped around what I could, but I did tromp down on an open palette of rouges. I shook my left rear foot violently before moving on. I sat down beside a wooden chest that was quite old. It smelled of ancient wood. I leaned closer to the locked box, my nose going a mile a minute. The odors leeching off the small chest were out of place. I could smell the sea. I could feel the old magic emanating from the box moving over my whiskers.
    I was baffled. My mind worked furiously. I put my nose to the lock then drew in a deep breath. I did that several times. Yes. It was the ocean I smelled. I had to know. So I began using a claw to try to pick the old lock. I fiddled for far too long. Having no luck, I set out to find the key. I opened every drawer I could find. Nothing. I even went through the trunks placed so neatly along the far wall. All they held were clothes for street and stage. I hoped my musk didn’t linger too badly on Ms. Panagakos’ frilly things. I was back at the chest, running my paws over it when a stroke of genius overtook me. I draped myself over the chest that was no bigger than a breadbox and began gnawing on the leather hinges. Yes, they tasted like decades-old dead beetles, but once I chewed through the pair I’d know what lay inside this box. I know what you’re thinking. But that saying is about a cat, not a skunk. I like to think polecats are smarter than cats.
    When both hinges were severed, I wiped my tongue on the back of my paw then