My first encounter with raccoons was in Monterey, California. I was in the Army, attending the Defense Language School, learning Vietnamese. On weekends, we would cut loose, being young, dumb and in search of beer. DLI was on a hill overlooking the town of Monterey, so we'd wander down Pho Franklin to party. So there I was, staggering back up Franklin with my friend, with a half eaten sandwich in my pocket. I got mugged by a gang of raccoons.
We've all seen raccoons; those cute, clever masked bandits. They deliberately took advantage of my inebriation as I meandered back up to DLI with half a sandwich in my pocket.
The gang of raccoons tripped me on my way up the hill, cleverly dropping me down by running under my unstable feet. I was not so drunk that I did not remember being swarmed by a pack of super cute animals in masks, their little feely fingers exploring my face, my glasses (which I preserved) and digging through my pockets for the half sandwich I'd saved for later.
I remember laying on the ground giggling as the funny beasties rummaged through my pockets. I think they knew I was no threat, their little feely paws just cracked me up. The raccoon gang stole my sandwich before hustling off to enjoy it. They meant no harm, just taking advantage of a highly amused, inebrieated hominid. I laughed as they ransacked my pockets. I laughed as they put their little paws all over my face and tried to steal my glasses. There was no hostility, the raccoons were probably laughing too, in their little chirring noises. After they got my sandwich, they left me alone to stagger back to my bipedal feet and find my way back up Franklin Street.
Later, when I was stationed at Goodfellow Air Force Base in Texas, I had the opportunity to rescue a baby raccoon; a little survivor whose mother and siblings were killed in traffic. He was the one survivor.
I learned that you can't raise a baby raccoon in a drawer in the barracks. Fortunately, a colonel at Goodfellow took the little guy for a while. Her kids loved that funny little critter. He'd follow anyone around, chirring happily at the attention. When I left after my training, I was headed to Fort Meade, Maryland. I'd found a nature reserve that would take him, but he had to have his shots. Canine and feline distemper, and rabies.
If you've ever worked for a veterinarian, you know that giving shots to an unwilling cat is hell.
Giving shots to an unwilling raccoon is worse. That thing turned into a Tasmanian Devil, Warner Brothers style; a spinning, hissing, growling bundle of OH NO YOU DON'T! Three adult human beings were required to inoculate that cute, fuzzy masked bundle of adorable!
Inoculations completed, the raccoon accompanied me in my VW camper van all the way to Maryland, where he was turned over to a place that provided food for orphaned wildlife until they could make their own way. One thing I learned from that cute little critter; if you give a raccoon a sugar cube or an ice cube, they will wash it until it disappears, then wonder where it went. Yeah, it's mean, but it is so funny!
My next encounter with raccoons was at Lake Cuyamaca, in the mountains east of San Diego.
We'd been trout fishing, this friend and I, and after it got dark we went to the fish cleaning station to take care of our stringers of trout. The station is a shack with water nozzles, a cement platform with holes, so you can shovel the fish guts into a trash can. I started cutting the fish, and the first swift sweep of guts into the hole resulted in a rather stressed out chirring noise I remembered from my Army days. I looked down the hole. There was a little baby raccoon in the trash can; sodden, sticky, and totally soaked in fish offal. That poor little guy was no bigger than the one I'd adopted in Texas, and he was not happy.
We heard serious hissing from the back entrance to the fish cleaning station. It came from a big, BIG male raccoon. His mate hung back, probably saying "don't mess with the hominids, dear," and two kiddies bringing up the rear. Dad was quite serious with his threat, and was big enough that I would not wish to mess with him. I realized that the little pup in the trout can was his. I spoke to him in a calming voice as Junior expressed his distress. I chirred at him in coon talk as I pulled the trash can out of its position and gently tipped it on its side, so the wee critter could escape its self-imposed prison.
Dad was fussed up. His fur was all on end, as big as he could get. His wife was telling him to take it easy and not challenge the big, dangerous monkey people. The kiddies behind were chirring like mad, distressed, not understanding the crisis.
Little trash can coon finally figured out he was free, and tottered out to rejoin the family. They licked him all over (trout juice is tasty) and he was accepted back into the fold. Dad quit hissing at us, and after a good cleaning, the little guy and his family faded off into the night.
I really think raccoons are very, very intelligent creatures. They know when you mean them no harm. They know when you're totally amused by them mugging you.
Today's weird news reported a 74 year old woman who tried to drive a family of raccoons off her porch. They tripped her and bit the hell out of her; in fact, the article said she was "filleted" by them. I have been swarmed by raccoons. I think they know when you mean them no harm, or are amused by their thuggery. This woman was seriously injured by them. It's all attitude. If they make you laugh, I think they enjoy it. If you're hostile, they will bite the hell out of you.
I enjoy raccoons, but I think it's because I am not afraid of them and I wish to help them if they are in need. They're not stupid. And they're definitely badder than urban hominids. Can't we all just get along?
