WrittenPost: The Raccoon Story

The Raccoon Story… (a True Story ! )

I’m going to try and tell you a story, and I’ll do my best to tell it just as it was told to me, by my buddy Russ, because the way he told it was right in there between “tears-in-your-eyes-funny” and “wet-your-pants-funny”. So, before you start reading, maybe you wanna’ go pee. I will also do my best to moderate my (and Russ’) language, but given the angst of the unfolding situation, some profanity is simply mandatory to convey the emotions of the parties.

Rated R: Language and Violence.

Russ is from Oklahoma, lives there still, hard-working guy, runs a manufacturing business that he began, with the help of his cousin, David. At the time of the story (2003), Russ was not married, so he lived alone in a small house he’d bought in an established, mid-town Tulsa neighborhood. It was originally built in 1939, and had been remodeled in the 1950’s.

For several days, or maybe a couple of weeks, Russ had been hearing noises. The time is tough to determine, because the noises were just a few bumps and thumps, weren’t consistent, and were not always clearly audible. After listening carefully, moving quietly through the house, which was already damn quiet as Russ didn’t own a TV, he figured out that it was coming from the kitchen. Mouse maybe ? Damn squirrel ? …those sounded logical, so he tried pounding on a wall in the vicinity of the sound and, sure enough, for several minutes, it would freeze and be silent.

Silent, for a time, but it would come back. Russ figured that he needed to take action before the critter made a mess inside his walls or attic. Nobody wants that, and certainly not in the kitchen! So, off to the local hardware store he went, where of course he found a myriad of tools for discouraging pests, everything from poisons for rats and mice to traps for those creatures. He also found some of the “non-injury” type traps you see for larger animals, like squirrels, opossums, etc. Thinking that the small noises were most likely caused by smaller animals, he focused on rats and mice.

Now, it should be said that Russ is a compassionate guy. He grew up in Oklahoma, which like growing up here in Texas, involves ample opportunity for hunting and fishing. Russ enjoyed his share of those activities growing up, but was certainly never one to kill animals callously (ok P.E.T.A., we don’t want to hear that it’s never humane to kill animals, I’m just making the point that Russ is not a violent, merciless sort of fellow).

Selecting a number of devices, since he couldn’t yet be sure of what he was dealing with, he headed home with some pellet-type poison for mice, a couple of smaller mouse traps, a couple of larger rat traps for more macho rodents, plus a type of poison that was wrapped in cellophane and looked a little like a candy bar. (no, I’m not going to debate the wisdom of packaging rat poison in something that looks like candy, just remember this item for later).

In trying to figure out where the little buggers were, Russ began poking around the kitchen, in every nook and cranny, formulating his strategy. The fact that this home was remodeled in the 1950’s is important, in particular for the kitchen, which had previously been pretty “1939-basic”. At some point, when re-working the cabinetry, a “cubby hole” of sorts had been installed in the wall over the wall-mount oven. I say “cubby hole” because it wasn’t a cabinet, it was just a recess, as deep as the oven was, with no door on the front.

Also years earlier, the house had a “floor furnace” (would have been natural gas burning) typical of older homes in the area. It consisted of a furnace built into the crawl-space under the floor, the output vents for which were ducted under the floor to each of the rooms. The inlet to the heater used to be a grate, about 2 foot x 3 foot (0.6 x 1.0m), in the floor of the dining room that was adjacent to the kitchen. My grandparents, who lived in west Texas, also had such a grate. My cousins and I could peer down into it, hearing it creak and groan as it worked, and we were pretty sure it was directly connected to the ”underworld”.

Finally, since they were all built in close proximity, the oven vent (which may have also been gas burning), the stove vent (likely gas) and the furnace flue were all connected to a small “chimney” of sorts, that rose up through the wall, immediately behind the oven and the (increasingly important) “cubby hole”. During remodeling, a more modern central heating and air conditioning system had been installed, and the old furnace and gas vents had been “blanked off”, but let’s say, maybe with only partial success.

This was all hard to see and Russ had never noticed it, because with the old furnace removed, there wasn’t anything down in the crawl space to maintain anymore, and hell, who wants to go down into a damn crawl space if you don’t have to, so he hadn’t been. He only figured it out, because, tying to see into the back of the cubby hole, he had to remove the medium-sized micro-wave oven that had been installed there. Sure enough, there was a gap in the plaster and Russ could see brickwork through the opening. This had to be part of the “path” that the intruding, offending, rodentary bastards had exploited ! Bingo !...we are gonna’ fix their ass !

So, plan of action:

- Assemble the purchased anti-rodent devices

- Select bait materials for the traps

- Deploy the poisons, carefully, in full accordance with instructions

- Arm and position the traps for maximum effectiveness

- Cover the “Cubby Hole” (leaving the microwave oven out for now) with a ¼” (6mm) plywood sheet, duct-taped in place (because we can’t have the little bastards running all over the place during this process)

- …and wait.

(Why duct-tape the plywood in place ? Because it makes a good seal, because Russ is a real man [plenty of duct-tape, always on-hand], because it’s easy to remove, and because…these were just mice !)

Because of this “Disturbance of The Force” that Russ had enacted with all of his prodding and probing in the kitchen, the noises stopped, perhaps not unexpectedly…for a while. Now, being a hard-working business owner, Russ was putting in a lot of hours. He would leave the house early each morning, and it wasn’t at all unusual for him to arrive back home after 9:00pm, which he did, about 3 days after deploying his anti-rodent measures.

He parked in the driveway, as usual, picked up his newspaper, and as was his habit, entered the house through the front door. As we said, it’s a small house, we could even say tiny, so he didn’t come far into the house, before turning left into the dining room. He flicked on the light so he could see the newspaper, this now was the only light inside the very quiet house, and standing there, not even sitting down yet, Russ began to scan the paper for the day’s news.

That’s when he heard the noises again. Quietly at first, it continued, clearly not noticing that the ruler of the roost had come home. In particular, Russ could hear “chewing sounds”, especially on the crinkly, cellophane-wrapped poison, which, according to directions, was to be deployed without opening the cellophane (safer for human handlers, I guess).

Russ had previously peeled back the duct-tape, more than once during the prior few days, to check for activity amongst the poisons and traps. So far, there had been none. This time however, there was clearly something going on in the “cubby”, and it was time to put a stop to it. Deciding that “letting nature take its course” with regard to the poisons might be, well, un-fulfilling (and maybe end with a dead animal somewhere in the walls), Russ decided to open up the plywood and take a look.

But first, deciding that doing so empty handed would be fool-hardy, Russ headed to the garage for further reinforcement. He found a 1” wooden (dowel) rod, it was heavy and stout, and about 3 feet long (25mm x 1m), just right for increasing the distance between he and the enemy, just a bit. Now, at this point, I would like to remind everybody that this isn’t called “The Mouse Story”…it isn’t called “The Rat Story”. I’m telling you this in a way that I’m sure Russ would have preferred that somebody do for him, just at that instant…because, you see, Russ was just about to have what I call an “Aw Shit !” moment. In fact, when he tells the story, it sounds a bit like an “Aw, I think I shit my pants” moment.

Explaining a bit further, the “cubby hole” was above the oven. The oven itself was installed at a “normal working height” for an oven, so that means that the cubby and the micro wave were actually a little high for convenient reaching. In fact, the remodeler in the 1950’s had even installed a little fold-down step, so a shorter (probably lighter) lady of the house could reach up to that higher elevation. But, the step was a little rickety, was not so well placed, and Russ always figured that his nearly 6-foot frame might break it, so he never used it. Russ quietly flicked on what he described as the “bright-ass light in that little bitty kitchen” (4pc x 4ft fluorescent tube fixture…bright).

Get this visual: Russ, still with work clothes on, I mean nice pants, dress shirt and tie, reaching for the duct-tape with one hand, wooden rod in the other hand, carefully creeping toward the enemy. He tugs, one-handed, on the tape, and, because it was loosened from the several days of peeking, the entire plywood sheet comes off the opening, quick and easy (quicker and easier than Russ had planned). The “bright-ass light” is shining over his shoulder, flooding the cubby, making it immediately apparent that Russ is now nose to nose, mano a mano, with big, F-ing, Raccoon. (Cue: the “Aw Shit moment”…)

Note: We are now well beyond the “playbook” here…one second, one instant into the “Plan of Attack” and it’s time to scrap the original “it’s just an itty-bitty mouse and I’m not taking any shit off ‘em” plan and think of an (entirely) new plan, in a big fricking hurry, because we’ve got a wild-ass, vicious, possibly rabies-carrying animal, formerly confined, albeit tenuously, behind the plywood, now about to run amuck, loose in the house.

Raccoon: Procyon lotor (raccoon, racoon, North American raccoon, northern raccoon) Extremely adaptable, ranging from Panama to Northern Canada, omnivorous, feasting on anything from crayfish to fruit to household garbage, vegetables to insects, mice to road-kill. 1

2 – RaccoonFactsHub.com

Cute? Maybe…

...but don’t forget the attitude !!

3- Alan Vernon/Getty Images/flickr rf

For those of you who might not be acquainted with Raccoons, they are indigenous to most of North America, can get to 20+ pounds (10+ kg) , have a beautiful, bushy ringed tail, teeth like a tiger and an attitude to match (and, due to some scent glands they have, they stink to high heaven). To demonstrate their adaptability, about 25 animals escaped from a fur farm in Germany is 1945, the result of an air raid during WW II (you can’t make this stuff up…). Today, the population in that area is estimated at over 400,000 animals! ¹

All Russ’ reading of The Art of War flashed through his mind, then, all those World War II movies flickered (in their black and white brilliance) before his eyes, machine guns, bazookas, phosphorous grenades…Nothing however, appeared useful in the current situation. So, sensing very few options, Russ raises the stick, and proceeds to whack the shit out of the raccoon.

During the telling of this story later, Russ’ buddy Gary observed that we seem to have a reluctance to view this situation from the point of view of the raccoon. After all, he was minding his own business, coming in through what looked like a perfectly inviting hole in the old chimney, and was only looking around for something to eat when some asshole tries to poison him. And just as he is coming to grips with the first attempt on his life, that same asshole rips off the wall to his comfortable little cubby hole, shines a blinding light at him, and proceeds, with force and violence, to beat the crap out of him with a stick. Who among us would feel comfortable in such an environment? (Ok P.E.T.A., I think maybe Gary and I are with ya’ on this one) (See: Post-Incident Interview with the Raccoon, below)

And so, the raccoon, the one showing greater restraint in this volatile situation, decides to retreat, back into the wall, to vacate these dangerous climes, for want of safer circumstances. Unfortunately, he screws up. Through the hole in the wall he can either go to the right or left of the bricks in the center. Left is freedom, but right is a dead end that leaves his hind quarters and large, fluffy, ringed, raccoon tail, exposed. Russ’ flailing at him having clouded his judgment, he picks “right”. Russ, also desperately seeking an exit strategy, quickly jams the stick into the animals hind quarters as a way of holding him in the hole, and if not defeating , at least containing him for a moment while Russ’s mind races through the names of possible friends and or neighbors who might provide back-up.

One result, given that Russ is no wimp, is that from impacts on the raccoon, and a few on the cabinetry, Russ has now broken his stick, just about in half. This is a mixed blessing, because even though this produces a stick which is pointier, and thus a more effective deterrent for the raccoon, it is also shorter, bringing Russ undesirably closer to the fray. Did I mention that raccoons stink ?

So, here we are in what we in the U.S. call a “Mexican Stand-Off”. It’s not a derogatory expression against Mexicans, it’s just a name for a situation where two guys have guns, pointed at each other, and neither can move without getting shot. It’s a situation which is tense, with no clear exit. In this case we have teeth, and a pointy stick. Thankfully, Russ hasn’t even taken things out of his pockets since arriving home, having moved almost immediately into battle. He realizes that his cell phone is in his pocket, and adjusts his grip on the stick so he can, one-handed, grab it and hopefully dial.

Now, as he is pretty well occupied with the coon, Russ isn’t able to look up any numbers, he’s stuck with pre-programmed friends only (but hell, it’s now past 10:00pm and he doesn’t want to call just anybody), so he dials Annie (his partner David’s wife). “What?”, I asked, “you’re holding a raccoon at bay with a stick, so you call Annie?!?” (I’m thinking that my own cousin’s wife isn’t well armed or particularly aggressive, so, no offense to her, but she wouldn’t be my first choice as back-up in a tense situation).

“No,” Russ said, “I was looking for David…Annie just happened to answer. But, no dice, it was Friday night and David was off hunting with some buddies of his.” Dang, a well-armed, fully macho Oklahoma man, but too far away to come to the rescue. “Annie,” Russ said, “I’ve got a coon in my kitchen.” “Oh my god”, Annie gasped, “…does he have a gun ?!?”

Now, again, I must explain a little, especially to my international friends… Unfortunately, sometimes in the U.S., African-Americans are referred to by some derogatory names. Annie is no racist. She was just awakened by the phone after putting the kids to bed, and just getting soundly to sleep herself. Her rather breathless cousin is calling her, and not-so-calmly seems to tell her that there is a “black guy” in his kitchen. You gotta’ get the visual: Russ taking the phone from his ear for a moment, and looking at it with a most incredulous look on his face… “No, ga-dammit! RA-coon, RA-coon!! He’s in my kitchen…I need you to call Animal Control !!,” Russ says, in what he feels is in a patient, articulate tone, but that others will later report differently.

“Oh, Jesus, OK, OK…I’ll call you right back…And watch out, those things have Rabies!,” Annie hangs up. For what seems like a very long time, Russ holds his position, a most uncomfortable, unnatural position, stick in hand, pressing hard against a raccoon’s ass, at an elevated position above the oven, tired from a long day at work, adrenaline coursing through his veins, not yet knowing that his evening was only just beginning. Finally, the phone rings, Annie’s number.

“Hello!,” Russ answers. “The Police are on their way,” Annie reports. I picture Russ’ face again, looking at the phone, again like “what the fu…?” “Police?!?,” he asks. “Well,” Annie says, “It’s after hours…” now being almost 11:00pm, “…the recording says the phone will ‘roll over’, then Tulsa P.D. answered.” “Did you make it clear that it’s an animal!?” Russ asked, again in a tone that would be disputed later. “Well, do you want help or not?!”, she demanded (hell, even I would’ve been a bit impatient with him by now). “Yes, yes, sorry, thank you, thank you,” Russ apologized, “I’ll call you back…” “Shit, I hope they hurry,” Russ thinks to himself, “this thing stinks!”

In the interim, still desperate for relief, Russ calls his girlfriend. “Don’t you know any other guys!?” I ask. “Well,” Russ answers, “no…I mean, yeah…but not close by, I mean Gary’s at least an hour away, and you gotta’ understand, by this point, I’m already worn out, it was way uncomfortable to be standing there, holding pressure on the ‘coon’, waiting for ‘Tulsa’s Finest’ to roll up on a Raccoon Call, on a Friday night when they have their hands full with more urgent crap.” “Ok, ok, I get it,” I said, “…so you call Kate.” She’s also asleep, but being the dutiful girlfriend (and not being fully aware of the complexity the situation) agrees to get dressed and come over.

It should be reported at this time, that Russ’s previously rather humane attitude toward wildlife has begun to deteriorate a bit. Having shifted form the nose-to-nose position to the current nose-to-ass stance, the stench (not to mention the attitude) of this (snarling, barking, nasty) animal is wearing on Russ. Not just that, but the thought of this battle taking place in the kitchen of all places was making Russ think he might never get the smell out of the house. Finally, a car pulls up, it’s Kate. It’s been more than an hour since he called her, but still she beat the police (which as we said, were busy). He hears her car door close, and waits as she takes a pretty cautious approach to the front door, wary of the “wild animal” in the house, and the coon.

From the front door: “Russ ?”…she calls. “In here, come in here please,” Russ answers, again in a tone and vocabulary that will be much disputed later. “Those things have rabies you know”, she cautions. “I know, ga-dammit, get in here,” Russ pleads. “Eewww…what is that,” she asks, catching the smell even though she’s only halfway in the front door. “Ga-dammit, get in here…go to the garage and get me something longer…something else I can hold him with,” says Russ (the disputed tone again). He hears the front door close…she’s going around the long way to distance herself (she’s no fool).

Another in a series of eternities passes, Russ finally hears her opening the side door. She’s holding a push-broom. “What!...that’s a fucking push-broom!?!,” Russ comments politely. “Ga-dammit, get out there and bring me something…a f-ing shovel, a longer stick, anything!!” Somehow, this tone is wearing on her already. Back she goes, leaving a bit more rapidly this time, and the time passes a bit more quickly, with constant sounds of somebody banging crap around in the garage.

Finally, he hears her coming back, slowly, dragging something heavy. She comes into view, banging and clanking, from the direction of the garage. She knows better now than to say anything, she just motions to the stuff she has gathered with a look that says “how about this, asshole?!?” Collected behind her is a regular shovel, a sharp-nosed shovel (for digging ditches), a broom handle, with the broom part screwed off, revealing a semi-sharp, aluminum tip, along with several other implements of destruction. All of these long, heavy items are standing in a 5-gallon (20L), bright orange, plastic bucket, once given away at the local hardware store, to put tools in, carry stuff, etc. “Gimme’ that pole with the aluminum point,” Russ requests, with a politeness matching his prior comments.

Carefully, trying not to let up the pressure on the enemy, lest he spin around and display his teeth again (not Russ, the coon, the coon!), Russ changes from the short, broken stick, to the longer, but not-so-sharply-pointed broom handle. Suddenly, there is a sharp tapping on the front-door glass storm-door. It’s the Tulsa Police Department, well, one officer, not the whole department, with his flashlight in one hand, the other on his service weapon (his gun). Kate heads to the door. “Move slowly, …keep your hands where he can see ‘em,” Russ shouts, after all, we are calling an armed Police Officer into a situation with a lot of unknowns. “The coon?” Kate asks. “No ga-dammit!!... the Cop!,” Russ shouts, now thinking to himself: “Shit, stupid woman…Gary could’a been here by NOW !!.”

“Good eve’nin,” the tall, lanky, 6 foot 3 inch officer says, “What seems to be tha’ trouble?” Now, Russ is doing another one of those “looks”, shifting his glance from the officer standing right in front of him, to the ass-end of the raccoon that Russ is still pressing on with a stick, which seems to Russ to be in rather plain sight. “Ahh…” Russ begins, in a tone much more appropriate for speaking to a law officer well after midnight, “…well… we have a raccoon…right here…right there…in my kitchen…”, Russ wonders how much more explaining this is gonna take before the officer gets it.

Immediately, this stoic, professional-looking Tulsa Police Officer turns, right in front of Russ’ eyes, into an Okie’ country hick. “Wa, yew sher dew…” Officer Okie says with a big grin, “you got a 'coon'…right there in yer kitchin!" “Thank god,” Russ thinks, “…they sent me Captain Obvious!”. “Do you know anything about raccoons?” Russ asks. “Oh sure!“ the officer says enthusiastically, “I used ta’ raise ‘em!” Russ is thinking “raise them…what the hell for!?!”, now choking back the urge to refer to the cop as ‘Officer Coon Boy’. “Dang, them things stink, don’t they!...What are yew gonna’ do with ‘em?” the ‘Captain’ asks.

“Um…well, I was kind of hoping you could help me figure that out”, Russ says, thinking: “…is this entire city full of dumb-asses!?!” Russ is remembering a news story he recently heard, explaining that it takes a 4-year college degree to become a Police Officer in Tulsa. He’s wondering, “how the hell did this guy get in?” “Could you shoot him?” Russ asks. “Oh no sir, we can’t do that,” the Officer replied, with a dead-straight face.

“What if I shoot him?” Russ asks. “Well, sir, I can’t let you use m’ gun,” the officer answered. “No dammit, my gun, what if I shoot him with my gun ?’, Russ very patiently demanded. “Well, sir, that’d be ok…I mean, I’d say it’d be Self Defense,” Russ can’t believe the officer is keeping a straight face, only it’s not an act, he’s serious. “What sort’a gun do ya’ have?” the officer asks. “Well, I’ve got a 12-gage Defender pump shotgun, just like you carry”, Russ answered. “Umm…naw, that’s gonna’ make a mess…what else ya’ got ?” the officer continues, again with the dead-pan.

Well,” Russ thought, “I’ve got an old, semi-automatic, .22 caliber rifle…the action doesn’t work, but it’ll work like a single shot.” “That’a be better…Sorry, but I’ve got a’nuther call, I gotta’ go. Y’all take care,” the officer turned back for a moment, “and sir…you’ll wanna’ be careful… them things carry rabies.” “What !?!”, Kate shouts, “you’re not going to do anything !?!” Russ still has the visual in his mind: Kate standing there, mouth agape, dumbfounded that the officer is leaving. “Well m’am…there ain’t a heck’a lot I can do,” the ‘Captain’ replied. “Well, what if it were me…I mean a woman, living alone, wouldn’t you do something?!?”, Kate is not-so-pleased. “Well, maybe m’am…maybe if it was…a Mountain Lion or sump’thin,” the officer answered. Russ is thinking “Mountain Lion!...in frick’n Tulsa!?!” Failing to see any hope of real help, Russ is now actually happy at the thought of the departure of “Officer Coon Boy”

It’s quiet again. And, Russ senses, the coon is tired too, because he isn’t struggling, isn’t making much noise, so Russ decides, cautiously, to ease up on the stick, for a moment. So far, so good, no movement, just some labored breathing, maybe the coon needed a break too. So, in a hushed but authoritative voice, Russ says, “Watch him!...I gotta pee”. After all, this battle had been going on now for more than a couple of hours, Russ was wearing pretty thin. This resulted in not-any-at-all comfort for Kate as she realized that now she, for at least the next few minutes, would be the first line of defense. She backed up toward the front door.

In a moment, Russ was back, now carrying his grandfather’s old .22, but the look on Russ’s face wasn’t good. All he had for bullets were some “22 Shorts”, basically, they are “plinking” rounds, with very little power, just a little above a pellet gun. Not much good for anything but targets, and way too little “knock-down power” for a 20+ pound, mean-ass raccoon. (did I mention they carry rabies?) “We need bullets. You’ll have to go,” Russ stated. “Where?” Kate asked, “it’s after midnight!?” “AllSport,” Russ replied (now who was deadpan?). “But…” Kate started. “No ‘buts’, get after it. I got him,” Russ said. Seeing the attitude Russ was taking with the coon, she wanted no part of pissing him off now, so off she went.

Again, after another perceived eternity, Russ’ phone rings. “Hey,” Kate’s voice, “what kind of ‘22’ bullets do you want ?” Russ had failed to consider: This is Oklahoma, and just like Texas, there is a whole aisle full of cartridges, of every make and model, including several shelves of 22’s. That was the first problem, the second arose when she attempted to ask for assistance, from the night-time AllSport staff, looking a bit shaken and nervous, at almost 1:00am in the morning. They were suspicious, three managers started giving her the third degree. Russ reached down deep for his “patient voice” and coached her where to look, what kind of box it would be, and said, “please hurry.”

Now at this point, when telling the story, Russ explains that, though it may seem strange, he’s been talking, yes, talking, to this raccoon. Not just now, while Kate is off at AllSport, but all through this process, and his tone and level of cursing has been rising and falling in parallel with the action of the battle. He’s been impressed by the nasty attitude and snarling, barking nature of the raccoon, but Kate later said, all things considered, the attitudes and demeanors of the two combatants had been much more similar to each other than she would like to think. It’s the stress. It does things to you.

Kate gets back with the AllSport “war materiál”, and here we are, it’s time for the moment of truth. Russ, gently backs off pressure again on the coon’s ass-end, and quietly loads one round into the barely-functioning old weapon. He has of course already been thinking, long and hard, about how to angle the gun, how to place it next to the coon, what the possible trajectory of the bullet might be, what ricochet possibilities might exist... He’s thought about where to position Kate for safety, and how to respond if the coon is in fact not killed, but, as a result of the first shot from this old gun, that only fires one shot at a time, is in fact only wounded, sending him into a bloody, adrenaline fueled rage…right there, in the kitchen. This last portion of the thought stream seems to give Russ “pause”…

He’s ready, “locked and loaded”, barrel against the animal’s ribs, safety off, finger on the trigger… waiting…any second now…ready…any second…this will all be over…it’s almost 2:00am now…holy crap what an experience!… But then, that vision of a rabid, adrenaline driven, wounded wild-ass animal, right here, in the kitchen, catches up to Russ. “Son of a bitch!!,” Russ says. “I am not gonna’ do this!... Fuck!!” he exclaims, and lowers his weapon. Now understand, this was NOT done out of compassion for this poor animal.

I told you, Russ is a decent person, a kind, responsible person, who has almost had car wrecks trying to avoid squishing a squirrel. But this is different. By now, Russ HATES this animal. Yes, “all caps” is appropriate here. Russ confesses that during this time, during this hours-long fight, mano a mano (hand to hand) with this significantly dangerous animal, he has not been merely “holding” the animal with the point of the stick, he has in fact been poking, prodding, jabbing…punishing this animal. Trying as hard as he could to end the battle by brute force, with the point of his “spear”, especially in those early moments when he didn’t have adequate back-up, or firepower, when he sensed a need to get this battle over with. Hate. Yep, that is the word.

Ok, Plan Number 27: “Safety First”

(yeah, I know it’s not “first” at this late part of the story, but hey, this is a new plan…)

- Russ dons a heavy, lined, Blue Jean jacket, the kind we all know around here, made of fabric noted for its ruggedness (note: it doesn’t say anything on the label about “resistance to fangs”…)

- He puts on some heavy leather work-gloves, and proceeds to duct-tape the cuffs to the sleeves of his jacket (remember, these bastards carry rabies)

- He finds some safety goggles (hey, it’s PPE, all of us industrial sales guys have ‘em in our cars)

- He cinches up a ball cap tightly, and puts it on, bill-to-the-back

- He arranges some plywood sheets to block (at least the lower half) of the main exits of the kitchen area (note, we really ain’t too prepared for anything jumping or climbing over these barricades, but hell, it’s 2:00am and that’s all we got!)

- He opens the back door (actually already standing open, from the earlier period of “weapon foraging”) to prepare an “exit path”.

“You look ridiculous,” Kate said. “This ain’t a fucking fashion show,” Russ says, in a tone Clint Eastwood would be proud of, and advances, once more, toward the enemy.

The plan is: Reach in there, right into the cubby hole, grab that bastard by that (actually) beautiful fluffy tail of his, and physically throw him out the back door, slamming it as quickly as possible thereafter. Ahh, the best laid plans of mice and men (and big f-ing raccoons). Russ is tired, barely standing, but this is do or die, this has got to end. He prepares to swap “stick pressure” for “tail-pull,” he rears back and gives a mighty yank. Russ is a little surprised at the result. It seems, our buddy the coon, has been resting.

The coon flips quickly around. Russ is now confronted with the most violent looking dental display he has ever seen. Baboons at the zoo got nuttin’ on this guy. He’s spitting, and snarling and snapping (and yes, maybe Russ a little too), and just at the moment Russ is contemplating the scrapping of this plan (and running away), the coon does a u-turn, and heads, again, stupidly, right back to the same right-hand non-exit he’s been stuck in for hours. Effortlessly, Russ rams the stick back up against the raccoon’s ass, and we are again at status quo. Meanwhile, somebody has pissed all over the floor, and Russ ain’t sure who. Son of a Bitch!!

“Ok…” after catching his breath, “…one more time!” Russ says, and before Kate can run away screaming, he yanks the tail again, preparing himself just a bit more effectively for the response. Same teeth, same snarl, same pee, but this time, the bastard (the coon) gets loose and jumps out of the cubby toward Russ. Prepared for this, Russ jumps to the side, and in a completely unplanned too-perfect-to-put-in-a-movie, parabolic trajectory, the raccoon plummets smoothly into the center of the bucket, which I have not mentioned for many lines now, sitting there in the middle of the kitchen floor.

The coon then executes what my father would call a “u-turn through his own asshole”, and prepares to erupt back out the mouth of the bucket. Russ, in response, whaps him hard, twice, perfectly on the head, stunning him (the coon) briefly. Determined, (clearly this is “do or die” for the coon too!) the coon clambers out of the bucket and actually heads in the direction of the back door. Russ whaps him a couple of times more, to deter him from seeking refuge behind the washer-dryer (which would have just started the whole damn stalemate all over again), the coon stumbles out the back door. Taking a deep breath with which to proclaim “Victory !!”, Russ, looking beyond the coon, notices that the garage door is open. The coon is heading in there. The breath he just took was now used to generate profanity that echoed, loudly, throughout the up-until-now quiet neighborhood.

Now, again, I should explain a little. Russ was driving a Jeep Grand Cherokee back and forth to his office. But, for fun, he had ordered a beautiful, 2002 BMW M3, Topaz Blue Convertible. It was hot! I was traveling there once, and he took me for a ride. You gotta’ understand, Russ loved this car. Russ named this car. So uncommon in the U.S.A., it was on order for 8 months. Russ bought it especially for his 40^th birthday. Did I mention that he named it? Barbie. And at this moment, the coon was heading right for it (sorry, I mean for “her”).

With his last bit of strength, Russ rushed to ‘her’ defense. Just as the raccoon raised its feet to the rear bumper, as if to jump up into the open cockpit (the top was down), Russ raised his stick and 9-Ironed that son-of-a-bitch into the garage wall. Deterred, defeated, and finally seeing a viable avenue of escape, the coon turned and headed down the driveway, to freedom. Russ, standing there, successfully having defended castle and hearth, and Barbie, watched as the little bastard limped his way away, toward relief.

=========================================================

Possible Endings:

Ending A:

Just then, driving quickly up the street in response to a 2:00am Noise-Disturbance call from a neighbor, was the same Tulsa Police Officer that had been on-scene a couple of hours earlier. Driving quickly, he didn’t see the wounded little critter, headed across the street, between two parked cars. Splat. Game over.

Russ stood there in disbelief, unsure whether to laugh, or cry, or crap his pants. To this day, we’re still not sure which he chose.

- o 0 o -

=========================================================

Ending B:

Standing there in the driveway, cool night breeze feeling so welcome, Russ didn’t know what to think. He’d won (Russ), clearly, he had his home to himself again. But, the little (not that little) bastard got away. Hell, he could be back. Or, maybe the poison would get him, though it was hard to know how much had gotten into him, or how much it takes for an animal 200 times the weight of a mouse.

As the raccoon made his way across the street and out of sight, into the neighbor’s back yard, Russ didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or crap his pants. He just turned slowly, and went back in the house.

- o 0 o -

=========================================================

Ending C:

Not ready to give up, Russ followed the raccoon down the drive way, toward the street. The coon quickened his pace. Maybe in response the Russ’ pursuit, or perhaps just tasting freedom, the raccoon pressed on, into the neighbor’s yard across the street. It was a home similar to Russ’ in construction and vintage, and by the front door, was an eve-high rose trellis, also just like Russ’. The coon, with the last bit of its strength, scampered up the trellis and disappeared over the peak of the roof.

Exhausted, and at the edge of his own “territorial jurisdiction”, Russ stopped, there on the drive way. The quickness with which the coon made it up to and over the roof surprised him. Cool night air blowing in his hair, he turned slowly to look at his own rose trellis, and vowed, first thing in the morning, he’d tear that damn “raccoon ladder” down.

- o 0 o -

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Post-Incident Interview with the Raccoon:

“Well, I tell you, it was a nightmare I never wanna’ repeat! First, I like to sleep in some sort of elevated location. After scavenging around all these people-houses, trying to clean up after these wasteful bastards, I mean, I’ve had buddies curl up under a nearby bush to take a nap. But, in a place like this this, you’ve got dogs all over, and if they sniff you out and gang up on you, you could wake up in serious trouble.

There aren’t too many suitable trees close by, so I noticed some flowers growing around front, on a kind of structure I could climb, but that I figured dogs couldn’t. I go up to check it out and find myself on top of this people-house. Sleeping up on top for several days, I was feeling pretty safe and rested. Of course, sleeping out in the open is ok during good weather, but cold weather is coming, so after a time, I start looking around for some sort of cover. I found a nice hole, and after sniffing around a bit, I can tell nobody else is using it, so why not me.

Well hell, I just step into it and instantly find myself falling, into a cramped, inky black space. I don’t know about you, but tight dark spaces freak me out, could be bugs, or rats, or who-knows-what in there! At that moment however, I was mostly pissed at the asshole that left such a dangerous fall-trap open for me to tumble into. Of course, having tumbled so far, it wasn’t easy climbing back up. So, I start feeling around, to figure out what to do next.

I must have fallen around dawn, after being lucky enough to find some interesting stuff to eat the evening before. I figure I felt around most of the day, in total darkness, and finally felt some bricks and what might be a way out. I climbed a bit, and rested, then climbed a bit more, all the while wishing I could come face to face with the jerk who built this people-house, so I could give him a piece of my mind about dangerous construction.

Late in the day, I’m guessing it was dark outside again, getting pretty damn hungry, and not having a drop of water in a really long time, I felt my way to a slight opening, where I could crawl a bit to the side, and rest. I had just settled down when I noticed something interesting there on the ledge. It was crinkly and smelled interesting, so I was trying to get it open. Just then, all of a sudden, the whole side of that little cave rips away.

There’s a blinding white light and this crazy bastard with a stick. Hell, I freaked, I mean it was like some kind of space alien was trying to grab me. This guy was nuts, wide-eyed, panicky, I mean he was freakin’ scary. And, worst of all, those people-things smell like hell! I just did my best to turn and crawl back the way I came, but it was a dead end. Hell, at that point, all I wanted to do was hold up my hands, you know, make it look like I didn’t wanna’ hurt nobody, in hopes he’d back off and just let me get the hell outta’ there.

But Noooooo, this asshole proceeds to freak out and starts whacking me with a big heavy stick, I mean Shit!!, that hurt! I’m trying and trying to get back into the hole, still seeing stars in my eyes from the blinding light, when jerk-off breaks the stick whilst trying to kill me with it, and starts tryin’ to ram the sharp end of it right in my hoo-haa! Son of a bitch!!

It seems like forever passes, I’m hurt, I’m tired, I’m pissed, and finally mutton-head decides to yank my ass outta’ there by my tail. Well, this is it, if he’s gonna’ eat me, then I’m gonna’ make him pay for it. I turn hard around, show ‘em my full set of fangs, and prepare to bite his balls off. Lucky for him, he just keeps getting’ one solid whack on me after another, I mean, I thought that bastard would kill me. Finally, I smell fresh air (did I mention those people-things stink!) and I make for it. He gets a couple more shots at me, hurt like hell, but I gave up on puttin’ the hurt on him, and just focused on gettin’ my ass outta’ there. Finally, I sense an opening, so I ran down the path until it’s clear he ain’t chasing me anymore. Freedom is mine ! (What an asshole !!)

- o 0 o -

By Mark W. Laughlin,

with and for Russell L. E. Rooker

24-October-2014