whistling pig farm (ah the places I have lived)

Groton, Connecticut

I had a ground hog (his other name: whistling pig, wood chuck) named Woody. He wasn't afraid of me but he wasn't a pet.
I came home from work and found him sitting in front of the clothes dryer, which was in the garage. Apparently someone had gnawed and eaten a hole from the crawl space (maybe) into the garage behind the oil boiler/furnace.
The crawl space (dirt floor) was home to family of skunks, too.
Yes, I had a critter farm in the city of Groton, CT.
I didn't feed Woody, my grass did. (Or the skunks ate the mice/rats in the crawl space, as I was told by the Skunk Lady (via email).
One night we heard little baby skunks having a squealing match under the floor. (Not good) Those little fuckers could spray as bad as their parents. (It was totally impossible to sleep with that smell.)
So I bought bobcat urine. Yes, there was a hardware store that sold it. (Don't ask how they harvest it. I have no clue.)
You dip toothpicks and cotton balls in that urine and put them around the yard and crawl space.
They told me a bigger predator would make the skunks rethink living under my 100+ year old cottage. Maybe it would scare off Woody, too.
No chance of that.