(One particularly heavy rainstorm drove some rattlesnakes up to our elevation. But that was very, very unusual.)
Before moving here, though, The Missus and I lived over on the other (older) side of town. A wooded area abutted our back yard, true, but it was enclosed by shopping centers, apartment complexes, and the like. We had a good number of feral cats, which we caught, neutered, and re-released. But otherwise (and not counting everyday North Florida fauna like opossums, little lizards and frogs), nada.
Except the raccoons.
We’d heard lots of stories of raccoon incursion from neighbors, and from folks elsewhere. Raccoons would get into the trash, we were told. They knew how to raise the lids of trash barrels. They might even find their way into a house. You might come home, or so we were told, and find pantry and refrigerator doors open, cereal boxes and milk cartons torn into and their contents scattered. They could probably pick locks; they probably carried rappelling and other mountaineering gear in their knapsacks. The cute little bandito eye masks, it seemed, hid a darkly frolicsome nature just as effectively as they protected the creatures’ anonymity.
At our place we happily experienced none of that. But we did have a running battle with them over the cat food we put out on the patio for the ferals.
We didn’t begrudge them the food. But we did begrudge them their impatience. If they were civilized, we apparently thought, they’d wait in the breadline with all the other critters. We’d gladly refill the plates and bowls… once the cats had eaten.
But raccoons are not civilized. They grab handfuls of food, shove it into their maws, smear it all over their faces for crissake. And then they go to the water bowl, lap daintily for a second or two, and plunge their food-and-dirt-encrusted faces and paws into the remaining water — sliming it into impotability for anyone downstream (so to speak). Sated, they waddle off, picking their teeth.
We chased them off repeatedly — always, it seemed, just a split-second too late. Maybe they weren’t waddling exactly, as we stood in the doorway, shaking our fists and calling out in our best You kids stay offa my lawn! voices. Maybe they were more like lumbering: hot-footed into motion. But you could hear them stifling giggles.
Oh, we’d tried a variety of remedies — always factoring in that we’re both “animal people,” with no interest in physically harming wildlife. The one we had the highest hopes for was a Havahart trap — a cage-type contraption with a spring-triggered floor. (You put the food bait all the way at the far end of the trap. When the animal enters to go after the bait, it steps on the trigger and the door slams shut behind. You take the cage somewhere else — out into the woods a good distance away, or to a wildlife-rescue facility if you’ve got one nearby — and open the cage.) We did catch an opossum with it, and we caught any number of the outdoor cats (probably starving for the raccoon-purloined goodies we’d left on the patio). But we never caught a raccoon.
It was driving me crazy. The Missus-to-Be thought it was hilarious. But I really started to take it personally. I’d taken to chasing the raccoons away and then waiting for them to reappear at the edge of the yard, whereupon I’d fling pennies in their direction. But I always ran out of pennies faster than they ran out of nighttime. (I tried nickels and dimes a couple of times until I suspected the raccoons might be collecting the coins to help them raid area vending machines. Probably for after-dinner cigarettes.)
Over time, I learned some things about them. I learned that they startled easily. You didn’t have to yell and bang on pots. You could stand very still alongside the big oak tree on the patio, or just inside a screen door, and wait for them to appear, and just give them a moment before saying, quietly Boo! And they’d tear off across the yard.
Great fun, no doubt. But it never kept them away for good, or even for very long.
I considered — I’m embarrassed to admit this — I considered getting a slingshot. Just couldn’t bear the thought of actually hitting one with it, though.
And then I had a brilliant idea.
At lunch one workday, I drove to a nearby toy store. I purchased something I’d never purchased before. I brought it home, prepared it per instructions, set out some cat food, and waited behind the big old live oak.Even with my hearing, I heard them before I saw them. Sauntering to the dinner table. Leaves crackled under their feet, and they chittered back and forth. (Hope it’s Fancy Feast tonight. Gettin’ sick of that Purina sh!t. And so on.) And eventually, you could hear them at their repast — shoving the paper plates around on the brick surface and, y’know, slurping.
It was time.
Veeerrrrrrrrrry carefully, slooooowwwwwly, I pumped my weapon. Peeked out from behind the tree. Only one varmint was still there. He was suspicious, all right, but he was also still hungry. Yet suspicious: he sniffed the air. He turned to face the tree…
…sniffing, he stood up on his back paws.
Luckily, I’d seen probably a hundred action films in which scenes of street combat played an important part. I’d also played numerous so-called “first-person shooter” video games. So I knew just how to time the sudden move. In one swift, smooth, sure motion I wheeled around the tree, swung the giant two-handed Super Soaker up to hip height, and pulled the trigger.
I hit the sonofabitch right in the center of the chest.
I’d never truly lived life until that moment. Raccoons, see — they think they’re so smart. Sooooo clever. You can’t surprise them. They take everything in (occasionally lumbering) stride.
But this guy was surprised. He was so surprised that he dropped immediately to all fours and started lumbering sort of zig-zaggedly across the patio, as though taking evasive action, rather than immediately lighting out for higher ground. I shot him once more, in the butt this time.
And that apparently surprised him, too, because he decided not to run, but to climb.
Which was, in a way, the most satisfying moment of all. Because, you see, the tree he climbed wasn’t a real tree. It was a sapling. And as he scooted up to the top in all his catfood-besotted poundage, the top of the tree bent, like a partial rainbow. He hung there like a sloth or an overripe coconut — mere yards away from the barrel of my weapon. I emptied the stream on him.
Finally he dropped to the ground, found a more conventional straight-line escape route, and disappeared.
I was laughing so hard by this point that I immediately ceased worrying about the raccoons’ raids. They returned a week or two later — I like to think my target had been demoted to lookout or getaway-driver status — but all my rancor had evaporated. From then on, until we moved, the raccoons would eat if they showed up. We’d rattle the door handle, the raccoons would leave, and we’d feed the cats. So it worked out all around.As for the Super Soaker? Retired. I never so much as loaded it again.
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P.S. Brief admin notice: We’re having company this weekend, arriving Thursday. It’s gonna be a busy week in general. I’ll be posting a couple of times, Wednesday and Friday as usual, but probably automatically… and probably won’t be able to spend a lot of time visiting other sites until sometime early next week. If I miss you this week, I will catch up!
cynth says
OMG! I can so see you doing this! I’m laughing so hard. I’m also glad it didn’t decide to come and get you! Which would have been almost as hilarious! Thanks for the giggle.
John says
I should probably be concerned that you can see me doing this. :)
(I don’t know why I’ve never told this story. It seems to fit in so well with the squirrels-in-the-attic one. Except that that story makes me out to be a laughable doofus, while this one emphasizes triumph.)
s.o.m.e.one's brudder says
which of course brings to mind: http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/115/first-day?act=2
Another scene where I could imagine John being present. I can actually imagine him as the “veteran” cop in this scenario.
Have a great next week!
John says
Well, you know it won’t be the same — a little of the old Hold on — there’s something missing from this picture! feel to it, if you follow my drift. I expect we’ll have a good time, though, and just look forward to touching base with you and the other “something missing” in a few weeks!
Nance says
Great coon story. It’s hard not to find them appealing, until you’re targeted by them. I’m not as nice as person as you, though; I’d have looked forward to my Super Soaker session all day, every day for weeks. In fact, I’m getting my own soaker while they are on sale here locally, ready for next summer’s mocking bird attacks in the garden. It’s not often we get to act out our innate animal aggressions so harmlessly or effectively.
John says
Oh, I was looking forward to it, all right. I told The Missus-to-Be about the idea several days before actually visiting the toy store, and it would be fair to say Anticipation Mounted. At least within me.
Harmless + effective: yes, desirable but difficult combination. We did have a problem with a feral cat who was completely homicidal — avoided us, but was really mean and destructive to the quasi-domesticated ferals. I mean, he was INSANE. His story ended with a Havahart trap and a one-way trip to the local animal shelter: the only time I’ve ever done that, certainly without regret. (The shelter staff couldn’t believe him, either.)
The Querulous Squirrel says
My two boys adored their super-soakers. It was during an era when certain Nazi politically correct parents frowned on any sort of “weapons.” I had no problem with it. My kids had been shooting each other with bananas. We have a raccoon family that lives under the neighbor’s porch. We keep our garbage cans locked up, but they have been seen peeking in at us sleeping around the skylight, parents and kids sliding down it like a ride. Also, their paws are so extremely dexterious that they have been known to unscrew my water sprinkler in order to drink running water from the hose. It took me awhile to figure that one out.
John says
My kids had been shooting each other with bananas.
That’s a sentence it was worth living this long to read.
One of my nephews once lost a friend in elementary school because his parents wouldn’t let their little boy associate with The Nephew anymore. Reason: he’d been showing off a rifle in my sister and brother-in-law’s house. Which sounds pretty alarming, and confused the hell out of sis and b-in-law until they realized what rifle was being referred to. It was a German rifle our dad had “liberated” in WW2, brought home, sanded down and lacquered, and mounted on a stand — pointing up, with a wire running up the barrel and a bulb and lampshade affixed to the end. I have a great deal of sympathy with parents who are fearful of guns, especially in any, uh, glorified form, but that incident (and the one with your sons’ Super Soakers) was a real head-scratcher.
The Querulous Squirrel says
Yes, we were trying to be non-sexist parents and bought the boys a little kitchen set with a stove and sink and fake food. That’s when I learned that little boys really are different from little girls. It’s biological.
John says
In certain neighborhoods that would have drawn protests from other parents worried about the effect your sons might be having on their sons. :)
Jayne says
“…I pumped my weapon.” That is hilarious! I had a feeling the super soaker would be introduced in this story. We have about a dozen boys in this neighborhood who’d love to help you out down there… with the coon that is. However, as they’ve gotten older, they’ve graduated from high-grade water rifles to AirSoft guns. Every weekend you can find them at the pipeline. But they’ve been told never to aim at the animals–those pellets sting!
And with those pesky critters, I’ll bet the AirSoft wouldn’t be any more effective than the soaker. ;)
John says
It was tricky, not wanting to reveal what weapon too soon. :)
If I’d been able to rely on the effects of wind and weather, I might’ve also considered one of those Nerf-style shooters. Especially the ones that launch one-after-another-after-another foam (or ping-pong) ball at the same target. But the Super Soaker seemed less likely to embarrass me!
Jayne says
Actually, based on the assortment of Nerf revolvers and automatics my son has cycled through over the years, I’d say you chose the right weapon. ;)
marta says
Growing up in Florida boondocks, I’m familiar with raccoons, opossums, rabbits, foxes, bobcats, rats, water moccasins, alligators, and cows all in our yard at one time or another…not at the same time just to be clear. My dad shot the rats with a bow and arrow. And he set traps for the raccoons.
This lady stops by the house sometimes to ask about the raccoons. She has a stew recipe apparently…
John says
Back in New Jersey, I have an uncle who once in my presence shot a MOUSE with a bow and arrow. I think it surprised him as much as it did the mouse although, of course, he was able to retell the story for many more years than the mouse could.
The raccoon lady: a bunch of us ought to do a joint project to catalogue all the strange people who stop by, uninvited, with strange requests. Not counting the Boy and Girl Scouts with their periodic food drives, I mean. And I guess glad-handing politicians and earnest missionary-type zealots get an automatic exemption.
When I was a kid, we had people roaming the neighborhood calling, like, Raaaaaaaaags…! and Straaaaawwwww-berries! — collecting and selling, respectively. No one looking for recipe ingredients more exotic than sugar, though.