Normally we go up north to see wildlife. In fact, since this camping season started we’ve seen racoons, deer and beaver, and we’ve only been on two trips so far.
Wednesday night, around oh-dark-thirty, there was a rattling on the patio. I got up and flipped on the outside light. A racoon with a wide rear end was squeezing him or herself under the fence. I brought the compost buckets inside for the night, hoping that would discourage the little bugger.
About ten minutes later, it was back, this time rooting around on the patio table, leaving muddy footprints all over the glass. I watched it climb the apple tree to attempt a long jump onto one of the bird feeders. Quietly, I opened the door, and picked up a small rock.
The racoon decided I looked pretty scary, standing there on the patio in my boxers, with a rock in my hand. It decided to scram under the fence. I wound up and threw my best split finger fastball. Thump! Got it right in the fat ass.
Ten minutes later it was back again, at the bird feeder. This time my fastball was in the dirt, and the racoon made it under the fence without another bruise. I brought the feeder inside and that was the last we saw of the racoon for the evening.
I should arm myself with a potato gun, or better yet, a paintball gun. If you see a racoon running around the neighbourhood with a bright pink splotch on its ass, you’ll know it’s tangled with someone it shouldn’t have.