My Pudgy Prowler

  

  

 

 

He came in the back door. The screen door was closed but he was low and determined. And hungry. A little push and nudge of the nose got him under the screen and led him to the enticing odour of the cat food. I’d like to give him forgiveness for the need, a starvation so deep it overrode all fear of two-footers, but he was a well-fed pig of a raccoon. And hungry. He could have been there 2 minutes or twenty. He could have watched for my every evening journey to the man cave and waited for me to pass or he was just there, then, with hunger and opportunity and nothing but a screen door in his way. 

It’s not that I don’t like raccoons, it’s just...they scare me. And I hate what scares me: bosses, racists, bullies. I don’t like rats, they totally gross me out, but they run when they see me. Raccoons get on their hind legs. 

So, I’m in my hallowed place. My Fortress of Solitude. My Cone of Silence. My Mancave. I’m chilling with a glass of wine and doing what a person does with darts, drums and time to kill. It’s after dinner and before TV so in these post-children days it’s uninterrupted time with me. There’s a computer out here so I check email, cruise YouTube and get the personalized newsfeed. It’s the bomb. But a look at the clock says She’s waiting so I stand to stretch and get ready for this night’s entertainment. 

The studio stands on the same footprint as the former garage and is separated from the house by a few Escher-esque decks and stairs. I pull myself up and along and arrive at the screen door. I hit a button and it slides open with a whoosh that alerts the pudgy guy chowing down in the pantry. He bolts for the door that’s now only blocked by me. I jumped (and probably squealed a little) and landed on him. He wasn’t hurt but spun on the spot so throwing the last of the wine in my glass at him seemed like the most appropriate action. The wine and stomp were discombobulating enough for him to spin further and dash for the safety of the interior of my home. FUCK. 

Trees are green. So are my curtains. So when Pudgy retreated he sped through the kitchen, across the living room and up the curtains for refuge. I stood frozen in the doorway processing what just happened. Looking straight ahead I could see to the far end of the living room. To the couch and curtains. And I saw this raccoon slowly poke his head from behind the curtain to assess the situation. He sees me and waits,  silently saying, “Your move”. 

I have a gun. It looks like those machine guns you see in action movies and does indeed fire plastic pellets at 500 feet per second. Enough to sting but not break the skin of a raccoon. In this moment I’m not debating the wisdom of buying it for my 15-year-old son (something about teaching responsibility) but ecstatic that it’s on the counter in the pantry. 

Giving myself courage with a growl, I grab the gun from the pantry and go out another exit from the kitchen; the one that leads to the hallway and another entrance to the living room. I see him from the hallway and he sees me. If I go into the living room, I can get to the front door and give him an escape route but I have to get closer to him. I’m almost out of courage but other than locking myself in the basement for the night, I’m also out of options. I draw up the gun and put him in the sights and growl like a really mean dog with the first step. He’s motionless, maybe amused. I move sideways towards the door, shifting the gun to my left hand like I do this every day and open the front door. 

Back in the safety of the hallway I stared him down and waited... for a few seconds. I was a lot more courageous in retreat, so I retreated further to the kitchen. I regained my sightline from the backdoor to his hiding place and where I had my own escape route but I also blocked the way he came in. I just thought of that now. Probably not my best move.  

I yelled and fired and he just looked at me. “Holy fuck”, I thought, he’s a tough son of a bitch. I yelled and shot again with a similar result and if he could he would have given me the finger. I had practiced a few days earlier (hence its ready-to-go state on the counter) with a paper target to determine the accuracy of the sights and where best to line them up. I decided I would try the sights cuz yelling and firing from the hip wasn’t working. I lined him up, fired and he jumped. Who knew raccoons could widen their eyes and looked surprised?  His glare at me was both shock and anger and revenge was on his mind but he could smell the night air from the front door to his left. He leapt in that direction tearing branches from the jade plant and leaving bewilderment in his absence. 

I’m still bewildered. That was my first combat and it's been playing like a movie trailer in my head. I think I won but She called the pest control company. Three days later he was in a cage waiting for pickup and relocation and I’m pretty sure it took him three days to come back because he was so scared of me. Maybe not, but now he’s chilling on a farm in Langley and I’m reading up on symptoms of PTSD.