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dawn of the raccoon

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

This morning I ran into our son's room, seized him and took him to the window to show him a mama raccoon and two kits.

He'd been sound asleep when I barged in, so he was a little uncertain as to what I was talking about. He pointed at a forgotten BBQ that's been rusting into the neighbor's weeds for the past decade and muttered about that being a raccoon. When I finally fixed his attention on the three raccoons in the tree right in front of us, he made some appreciative noises, then asked to be taken back to bed.

Raccoons are cute, and they're obviously smart and they get along well in our cities. But I wish we didn't have quite so many around: since Kenny went back to bed I've been down to check on the garbage bins beside our building, and once found two of them in one of the city's small green bins.

At that time, the mama (doubtless the same animal I'd shown to The Boy) ran off with one youngster but left the other in the bin. So I took the bin down and set it on its side so that the second youngster could follow. Which it did with only a first frantic look around.