Wednesday, March 28, 2012

I Speak Raccoon. And I Don't Like What I'm Hearing.

My 14-yr-old son called us last night, panicked, and told us not to come home. There were six raccoons on the porch and he feared for our safety. You may think they're just raccoons. But we have history.

A few years back, we were awakened by what sounded like someone screeching and banging together pots and pans in our drive-way. I fully anticipated looking out the window and seeing some jackass teenagers that had too much to drink. Only, when we looked out the bedroom window, it was 3 raccoons, smacking our cat-food lids together. Looking right at us. Saying, "What? You can't do a thing. And we already ate the cat food." Bastards. 

In the next few days they managed to shred the bottom of the garage door, rip up the inside of the garage, and fight the end of the rake my husband used to get them out of the garage. Every night they chanted "Hell No! We won't go!"

So, recognizing they were attempting a hostile take-over, my husband contacted some friends who trap them. And don't get all sentimental on me. The bastards got destructive and it was full-on war. 

The first night we trapped one. And we awoke to the sound of metal being dragged. Because metal was being dragged. The other two sons of raccoon bitches were dragging their caged mother down the drive-way for an escape. I don't know how they managed to get her out of that cage. All I know is that there was blood everywhere and she was gone. And we were pissed.

And then it happened. The next night my husband got smart and bungee corded the metal containers of cat food shut. Only they got smarter and took the bungee cords off. Like a sleep deprived man, broken for the last time, he jumped out of the bed in his boxer shorts and stomped downstairs. I jumped to my knees and watched out the window waiting for him to bust out the door. But he didn't. He came back up pumping his gun. HARD. His b-b gun. He looked like Rambo. He removed the screen very stealth-like. He aimed the gun...and knelt down in his boxer shorts, acting very ninja warrior. (only I'm not sure they use guns.) And he shot.

And then his facial expression changed from ninja-warrior to my great aunt Nancy's. He said, "Oh no. Heather. Oh No. Come here!!!"

So I jumped from my very quiet position on my knees and ran over to him. He had shot the damn thing right between the eyes. It was convulsing and bleeding out and it was the most disturbing site I have ever seen. And I, for the love of God, have no idea why he found it necessary to scar me like he had scarred himself.

There is no real point to the story. Maybe it's, even animals lovers have a breaking point. And sleep is super important to us both. I just hope these new raccoons know who they're messing with.

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