Raccoons and I have a long and somewhat sordid history. There are just so many stories I could tell, but for now, let’s talk about the dizzy one, that time we were camping down in Georgia.
We had a campfire going, everyone was sitting around relaxing, and along came this raccoon. It was unusually friendly, completely fearless, and downright persistent. It wouldn’t leave us alone, kept sneaking up and trying to steal food. I get it. In state parks, animals often get used to people, and they’ve definitely developed a taste for our snacks.
Well, at one point, I could hear it rustling through the weeds behind me. So, I figured I’d just grab a small log and toss it over my shoulder, not to hit it, just to scare it off. That… did not go as planned.
Up the log goes, tumbling end over end… and instead of landing near the raccoon, like I intended, it takes a magical mid-air course correction, and lands directly on top of poor little Mr. Raccoon’s head.
THUMP. Square on the noggin.
I could not have made that shot if I had tried for a million years.
Down goes Mr. Raccoon. Out cold.
Cue the children screaming. “You killed him!” “Dad, what did you do?!” There were tears. There were accusations. There was trauma.
But as luck would have it, he wasn’t dead. Just… mostly dead.
He lay there, limp and lifeless. Then suddenly, twitch. His little furry body gave a convulsion. A minute passed, twitch again. Every few moments he’d spasm, which only made my kids scream louder and insist I was some kind of woodland murderer.
After three or four minutes, Mr. Raccoon somehow came back to life. He didn’t leap up and scamper off, though. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, he slowly pushed himself up, swaying like he’d had one too many drinks, and began to wobble away.
But of course, he didn’t just disappear into the woods. No. Every few feet, he stopped. Turned his head. And gave me the glare, that unmistakable raccoon side-eye of doom. No longer was he saying, “I’m going to steal your food.” Now he was saying, “Later tonight, I’m coming back with my cousins. Sleep lightly, log-thrower.”
He kept doing it, walk a few steps, stop, glare. Walk. Stop. Glare.
It’s been years since that night, and my family still hasn’t let me live it down. I doubt they ever will.
