a raccoon in crisis
the journal of Michael Werneburg
twenty-seven years and one million words
Today's adventure began Jon with asking, "Does that look like a hand to you?"
We were helping him move into his nice new digs a stone's throw from the water's edge here in the Beaches. We'd just pulled into the ramshackle parking shed off the lane at the back. The thing has cupboards, but they've been torn apart by some kind of thick fibrous vines. One of the doors was hanging crookedly, and from the slim triangle space between it and its neighbor hung an animal's bloated arm and paw.
We got out of the car and approached. After a moment's horrified contemplation, I stuck my nose in a bit, but couldn't see the rest of the body attached to that limb. Jon reached up and tried to pry open the doors, but only managed to separate them enough that the arm slid down further. What's more, there was a clear sound of weight shifting inside the cupboard. The body inside was intact to some extent.
Then the fingers on the paw flexed. The animal was indeed alive.
I immediately returned to the car. Jon, surprised, cried, "Where are you going!"
I returned with a hammer, and pried off the flimsy hook and eyelet that was at this point load-bearing. The poor damn critter inside fell into the dim tangled recesses of the vine-choked interior. Then there was silence.
So Jon opened the door. "Yeah, that's a raccoon," he announced, and closed the thing just as quickly.
We left it there. It's probably still there, nursing its arm.
Unless the coyotes have found it.