Butchblog

A brief encounter

The racoons came again last night. I wasn’t happy about it. I was in bed reading when I first heard them—didn’t recognize the sound at first. It’s normally totally quiet where we live—no neighbors except in the summer. The noise wasn’t loud, only a gentle scratching sound, but still it was worrisome. I put down my book, grabbed a flashlight, and went outside.

            It was late, after midnight, but as soon as I stepped out on the porch I felt completely awake—alive in a way I hadn’t felt all that day, when mostly I had lazed about, feeling shitty because I was on a course of antibiotics which were kicking my ass. Life, you know. Outside I forgot about my own stuff. Everything felt more vivid. I think I don’t go outside enough at night. I should make it a practice, night-time strolls. Okay, I’m drifting. Back to the damn racoons. There were three of them. The flashlight beam picked them up right away, their beady red eyes glaring in the light. Bold little devils, they didn’t skitter away as I hoped they would. One held its position near the trash can, possibly frustrated that it couldn’t get the lid off. Another looked away. The third, bigger one, started moving toward me. I yelled something stupid like, “Get out of here! Go on!” Like they could understand English, or cared. And for a moment there I was afraid. They might decide to come after me. The coons had the numbers and they can be vicious. A racoon killed my neighbor’s cat  when I lived in Portland—but I think that cat probably deserved it.

            After a few minutes of this stand-off, the racoons went back to their foraging, ignored me, their rear haunches humped up, noses down. Ugly little bastards, I thought and retreated inside the house. What else could I do? They had as much right to be outside as I did. More even. I don’t really own the land our house is on. That’s something our “civilization” makes up. The elk and the deer, and even these racoons, they’re the ones who were here first and will be here long after I’m gone. I mean, I still don’t like them—the racoons that is. But clearly they don’t much care for me either.