It's 10 PM. I walk into the living room to see Mark perched on the edge of his easy chair, an intense look on his face. He points to the window which faces the backyard.
Squatting beneath our birdfeeder is a HUGE racoon. Huge. I mean the size of a small truck. Or a housecat.
The window is open, and he is staring right at Mark and I while he dines. Stare stare, chew. Stare stare, chew.
"Awwwww he's cute!!!" I say.
"I'm calling animal control." Mark says.
I go to unlock the door, thinking he will surely run. I mean, come on, scary lady in an old nightgown with no makeup? I'd run, birdseed or no birdeed.
He has other ideas. Not only doesn't he run even when I step out onto the deck, he also does a little shuffle and head bob, Ali-style.
Oh no he di'nt.
I decide he isn't cute anymore. I decide he is rabid and filthy. Mark is on board with this decision.
We both stand, only 10 feet away from him. He continues eating and staring. While I am glancing down to find some shoes, Mark picks up Lily's toy popper- you know the one that looks like a little vacuum and is so utterly annoying? You have one. You know why it's on the deck. Don't judge me.
Mark shakes the popper in the air and does a little dance, Egy-style. Of course, since I am not expecting this, it scares me to death and I drop to the deck and pee myself. This makes us laugh until we cannot breathe.
He still doesn't move. He is really creeping us out now.
Oh, where is the dog you ask? Asleep on our bed, naturally.
Mark finally gets close to chase him off. He climbs the fence lazily, casting us one more creepy stare over his shoulder as he goes.
Mark swaggers inside, proud. Man chase off beast size of cat. Man is big man. Man is strong man.
We are sure he is gone for good. Ten minutes later, however, he is peeking over our fence like a masked bandit.
This calls for the big guns. We let out the dog.
Brooklyn stumbles unsteadily out of the doogie door, having been woken from her sleep on our WHITE duvet. (white duvet, black dog...insert gasp here) She comes face to face with the racoon, seeing him perched on the fence. And she does....nothing.
She stares. He stares. I shriek at Brooklyn to earn her kibble and "Get im!!" She pees. She scratches herself lazily. The racoon sits on the fence and watches calmly, waiting, I am sure, to hop onto one of us and eat our face, hannibal-style.
Finally, the racoon makes a move to come down the fence onto the rocks below. That's when all hell breaks loose and Brooklyn goes to town. She barks, she yelps, she growls, and she repeatedly hits the fence like a little wrecking ball. The racoon is now on the other side of the fence, hissing and spitting and growling itself.
Brooklyn barks and growls, Mark takes the hose and sprays the varmit with it. "Great," I mutter, "Now he's had food and shower. It's the wild kingdon B&B!"
We hear him crash into the underbrush and run off. Brooklyn gives one last bark and then saunters into the house with her "Gimme a treat, lady!" doggie grin. I oblige.
Need I remind ya'll of the snake incident? Remember, back over a year ago?
http://itcouldabeenworse.blogspot.com/2008/07/oh-ma-gawd.html
You'd think we were Ma and Pa Clampett with all this dang wildlife. I think it's time to buy me a wicker rocker and start whittling on the back porch. Naw, that would ruin my manicure. Ahem.
