A Rocky Raccoon and a Rough Ride at the Homestead
The Lessons I Learned About the Dangers of Certain Disastrous Critters. (Or, Why I Thought Today Was the Time to Take a Humorous Break From the Normal News Cycle).
Normally, I try to avoid writing about personal affairs. If I do, it has only been to praise the always-fantastic work of my brother Michael (who incidentally has been putting out some particularly terrific posts lately. Check it out). Yet here I am, typing out this article, over the sounds of a frustrated raccoon trying to claw her way into the vents.
Yes, it is an odd predicament, with an even odder story behind it. Some people in the family circles have already heard it. Many almost immediately saw it for what it was: a situation no sitcom writer could dream up in their life.
As you can imagine, I am a little conflicted. On the one hand, I am fully aware of how funny all this is. Sometimes I laugh myself at the sheer craziness of it all. But on the other hand, the other people awake keeping the late-night raccoon post-Easter vigil were doing anything but laughing. Despite all that, all the crises going on in the world today make the woes of our current raccoon problem seem painfully small by comparison. So, in the spirit of that humbling thought, maybe the following article will provide a necessary change from my reporting on the state of America and the world today. We all need a break, and that includes my almost 100 subscribers. Except, of course, my poor brother, mother, and father. You are going to just have to suffer through this one.
It began with what sounded like knocking a few days before Holy Week. To our horror, we learned that the noise was coming from the attic (luckily, a space that we never made any use of). Something apparently had gotten in. Who—or what—was this unwelcome guest, we asked ourselves? Was it a squirrel perhaps? No, impossible. It was just a teeny tiny bit too forceful with its increasingly frequent pounding.
We tried to wish away the truth. We considered every other possible option. However, every sign pointed to an uncomfortable conclusion: it was likely a raccoon who came to fill the role of our Lenten penance. To make matters worse, it was probably a mother raccoon trying to create nests for soon-to-come baby raccoons. That could automatically multiply the raccoon trouble by a factor of three, four, or more.
And worst of all, Mama Raccoon positioned her nest right above the family couch. Just in case she wanted to drop in, to personally thank us for our hospitality.
Long story short, we had concerns. Either the raccoon was going or we were, and we were going to stand our ground.
My mother started with some more basic tactics. When she heard that putting the TV volume at full blast might make the raccoons feel unwelcome, she did that. That failed. Then, when she heard that rock music at full blast might be more effective, she did that. That too failed. It also meant that I was not going to finish up my semi-final draft of my Honors History thesis, my law school application due April 1, or my law school scholarship applications due March 31 anytime before Holy Saturday evening. Loud ‘80s rock music has many uses, but providing the right environment for proofreading or essay-writing is not one of them.
Though I digress. Once again, the failures of these attempts to expel Ms. Mama Raccoon forced us to acknowledge another uncomfortable truth: we clearly needed professional assistance. Not least because we discovered the possible twitterings of baby raccoons.
Unfortunately, no professional wanted to mess with the Mama Bear in the attic. Every animal control or animal control-related group we contacted wanted that big raccoon safely and securely in a trap before it for a second considered going up in the attic. Either they trap it themselves, or we trap it for them. There was simply no way that they were going up there to catch a big mother raccoon protective of her precious babies. As a family friend so memorably put it, everybody who used to do a job like that in the old days had “wisened up.”
To repeat, our choice was to trap it or have them trap it. Or, we think of something else. OR, we let the raccoon stay.
Obviously, choice 4 was out, as was choice 3. To trap or not to trap; that was the question. We decided to trap. For good reason too. My mother had done it many times before, although in much less stressful circumstances.
On that hopeful note, we put out the traps on either Good Friday or Holy Saturday. By Holy Saturday, we reached what appeared to be our darkest point. You see, besides putting out the cages, we tried to plug up the raccoon’s main entranceway. That was successful, but not successful enough. Mother Raccoon, far from taking the hint, simply tore a sizeable hole in the vent on the other side of the residence. To add insult to injury, she posed for that infamous picture I have at the top of this article. Looking at us all like a toddler proud of the mess they have left behind for their parents to clean up.
After that terrible “dark night of the soul,” you can only picture the joy that came with Easter morning, when we saw a raccoon in one of the traps. It was everything we could have wanted. A female that showed no signs of nursing—and therefore, no sign of having had babies. Success! Like Christ emerged victorious over his crucifixion and burial, we emerged victorious over our mortal nemesis. The baby twiterrings must have just been the would-be mother. Or some baby birds.
Our family was jubilant. Our neighbor helped secure the vent, and at Easter dinner we marveled over how conveniently we were able to get rid of Mother Raccoon on this special day. Then shortly after dinner was over, BANG, BANG, BANG! Our ears all perked up with sonar-like precision. Another noise. Coming from the vents. Uh-oh.
“God doth have a sense of humor,” as the saying goes. We caught the wrong raccoon, and locked the other one in. In our celebrations, we never stopped to consider that we could have caught just another neighborhood critter with a similar profile.
Anyways, after much grunting, growling, and butting up against the layer of screens, Mama Raccoon finally broke out of her accidental prison. She started climbing a nearby tree. We tried to bring her back down with promises of marshmallows and shrimp—anything to beckon her to the cage or at least to the ground. No such luck.
Regrettably (for her) the raccoon has had some trouble getting back in. Her escape route was too narrow to allow her to return to her nest anew. That is not to say she has not tried. For two nights now, she has been banging and clawing away at the screens on both vents, hopping from vent to vent every half-hour or so. It has thrashed out at sections of the siding and the roof. Since my room is next to one of the vents, I am in the unenviable position of having privileged access to all of this.
Traps are set, pest control has been called, and hopefully the story will have a happy ending soon. For us, not her.