Raccoons

Raccoon Versus Pond by Jennifer E. Cook

October 14-17, 2005, Austin, Texas

The other night something was playing with marbles, from the sound of it, in the attic.

Something large.

Just like in every horror movie, I, alone in the house, fetched the stepladder and removed the hatch to the attic (ignoring the cautionary screams from the audience). The stepladder's too short for me to see into the attic without balancing precariously on Jason's weight machine. So I stood uncertainly at the top of the stepladder and listened.

Something was coming.

I saw the insulation at the lip of the opening move with something's weight, but the creature itself remained out of sight.

Jason got home just as I was getting a stick and some goggles (insulation was falling into my eyeballs). I clambered on the weight machine and shone a light into the attic. I was a little concerned that a large rat would claw my eyes out. However, the light illuminated some shiny black eyes and a mask.

I have been disappointed about the lack of raccoons in my yard since I moved in. Armadillo, occasional opossum, but no raccoons. However, I did not want them in my attic. In fact, I don't even know how the little monster got it; I had the entrances carefully screened over.

I said in my sing-song wild-animal voice, “It’s okay…” and damned if the raccoon didn’t walk toward me and the flashlight! I put some dog food at the lip of the hatch to the attic, and the raccoon fearlessly began munching on it.

After two different trips up to the roof and all over the exterior, I finally found out how the little brat was getting in. Get this: Imagine a covered vent. Under the cover is a metal fan. Under that is tight wire mesh. The raccoon managed to bend up one of the fan blades and then squeeze a hole between the bands of mesh. Unbelievable. The clincher was the tufts of raccoon hair stuck on the bits of wire. So I fixed the hole with chickenwire.

Then last night I heard a noise. The raccoon was standing at the back door staring in. It was as if he was saying, "Uh, guys, you locked me out! A little help, here?"

Part 2: Raccoon's Revenge

I have a little "pond" with goldfish and water lilies outside my bedroom window; it's a galvanized steel tub, maybe fifteen gallons, with sides fourteen inches tall.

Last night I was awakened by a squeaking and a light clanking sound. I went to the window, expecting to see a raccoon messing with my pond. I expected it to be the same young loner raccoon I'd chased out of my attic.

What I did not expect was to see the raccoon squatting in the middle of the pond, up to his shoulders, fishing around busily under the water.

I banged on the window and he grudgingly crawled out of the pond and sat on the grass. After giving me two whole seconds of respect, however, he marched back down the stepping stones and got back in the pond.

I went outside and chased him off. However, this morning I discovered the awful truth: he ate all but one of my goldfish (of course, including my favorite). The poor goldfish; I'd taught them to nibble on my fingers.

Anyway, I see two options:

1. Change my schedule so that I'm awake at 3:00 a.m. every night, waiting with a bottle of whiskey and a BB gun.

2. Follow my friend Raf's advice and protect my decorative pond with chickenwire. However, the words "decorative" and "chickenwire" do not belong in the same sentence.

Part 3: Raccoon: 1. Jennifer: 0.

As I cleaned up the pond (that raccoon had dirty little feet), I found a large water lily root. Water lily roots look like small pine cones. I picked it up; it was soft. Now how could a water lily root get squishy or rotten? I mean, they're aquatic - - -

That was when I realized I was squeezing a raccoon turd.

I have somewhat overcompensated in protecting the pond. Trapping the raccoon is not an option because I love raccoons; I've just never tried to have raccoons and a pond before. Besides, they're like suicide bombers; remove one, and more will take their place.

My sister wrote me about a similar plight: "Having dug a pond of the appropriate depth [more than two feet] to avoid raccoon ravages, I had a large bullfrog move into the pond and eat my favorite fish, which had been creatively named Little Whitey. Three weeks after I killed the frog, a blue heron ate the rest of them."

So I went to PetSmart to replace the goldfish. I buy "feeder fish" which are between twelve and twenty-six cents a pop. Only one of the orginal fish remained, an unremarkable Red Shirt [a Star Trek reference, folks] Jason dubbed Ensign Johnson. So I carefully chose striking fish with black stripes so I wouldn't have a "favorite" this time around.

The guy at PetSmart recommended scattering dog hair around the pond, so I got some from the grooming area. The grooming area was populated by the dregs of humanity. Seriously, it was a little like West Virginia in there. The bottom echelon of humans were grooming the top echelon of dogs. However, after a full two minutes of silence, they asked what I wanted. Which has to be a first: "Kin I have a bag o' dog hair?".

I scattered the dog hair around the tub. It was in black and white clumps, like bits of felt. Or like a werewolf mating ground. Jason asked, "Is that how he said to do it?"

"To do what?"

"Scatter the hair. I mean, is it supposed to look like that?"

I stared at him and said a little too loudly, "Beyond 'scatter dog hair,' I don't think there were detailed instructions."

I put the galvanized tub up on bricks and got to work with the chicken wire. I made a layer of chicken wire about two inches from the bottom of the tub, so the fish have a sort of protective basement.

Jason commented, "It looks like the Gulag in there."

Part 4: 'Twas the Night Before Monday.

Yes, it did look like the Gulag. All we needed were miniature towers or tiny floating mines. So after a day or two, I took out the chickenwire. I mooched more lilies off the ever-generous Ian and Christa. I hoped the lilies would proliferate this time, giving the fish cover.

That night a clanking sound awoke me. The water was sloshing suspiciously in the pond. I went back to bed, until at 4:30 a.m. I woke up again.

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the shadowy lawn
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the garden and pond,
When, on what did my wondering eyes alight
But a fat, purposeful raccoon, and his date for the night.

Ahem. Anyway, folks have advised me to trap the raccoon and let it go somewhere else. There are two problems with this (aside from the fact that I like raccoons, I just have never had goldfish before). First, some experts maintain that taking a healthy raccoon and moving it to a new environment where it might become an unhealthy raccoon isn't a splendid idea. Second, in my neighborhood, two blocks from the greenbelt and Barton Creek, raccoons are like suicide bombers or celebrity weddings: You get rid of one, and more take its place.

And here was the bowlegged proof! This was an older, larger raccoon than before. He waddled through the clumps of dog hair without a second thought and effortlessly climbed into the middle of the tub (which, if you recall, I had raised up on bricks). He brushed noses sweetly with his date and began fishing for their dinner while she watched adoringly from the sidelines. However, she still managed to knock over a pot.

I banged on the window. The raccoon left the pond, but his date stood her ground, staring at the window as if to say, "Oh, yes, another round of drinks would be nice, please."

I threw on clothes, went outside, and re-established the layer of chickenwire (did I mention it was 4:30 a.m.?). I covered it up with the water lilies that the fat romantic hadn't demolished. The fish miraculously survived, including, of course, Ensign Johnson.