Little Rascals

My wife, if she could have seen me, would have been very irritated, and desperately envious.

I've gone out back on the deck to leave a bit more food for the family of raccoons before getting to bed. (Yes, she has a family now. Four little ones, who look exactly like her, come tumbling along behind in the evening, probably not too much larger than my feet under all that fur.) By now, I've become a familiar presence, so much so that Mother approaches with little apprehension (particularly when she sees the plastic container I'm holding, which invariably contains dry cat food), and the kids soon follow.

I'm standing near the door, slowly edging my way back toward it. I'd much rather stay and watch, though. Mother is nibbling from a pile of dry cat food, while the kids are nibbling along with her, or completely destroying a plastic foam toy my seven-year-old has left on the deck, or looking through the back door at the cat that's watching them, or trying to get up the courage to approach the plastic container I've left on the deck (I'm not sure what they thought it might be), or approaching me — which didn't require much courage at all.

One of the little ones, the most intrepid one — there's always a most intrepid one, in every litter — is wandering around my feet, sniffing at my shoes, then at my bare ankles, with a cold wet nose. That one is soon joined by another. I'm not the least bit concerned for my safety, really I'm not. Mother doesn't seem the least bit concerned, either, though she does take a sudden interest when I pick up the plastic container (I have to convince her it's empty, and that anything I have to offer is right in front of her).

I know raccoons are curious, but every year it seems I discover this all over again.