I have no idea how it happened, but at some point during the past year the local wildlife designated our backyard as their own personal Studio 54. It appears to be their favorite meeting spot, and it's not unusual for me to walk outside and see them congregating in little clusters around the yard. One of these nights I fully expect to see that all the raccoons and opossums, wearing lots of crushed velvet and gold chains, have fashioned a sassy new dance floor out of some old cardboard boxes, illuminated by the Christmas lights we still haven't taken down. That one rabbit with the fluffy tail will probably be wearing her Fuck Me Pumps, because you can tell just by looking that she's got a little whore in her. (That reminds me of one of the more memorable pickup lines I got in my younger days: Oily dude: "You don't have an Italian bone in your body, do you?" Me: "Nope, sure don't." Oily dude: "Would you like one?")
Anyway, I've written before about the raccoon that's been hanging out in our attic. When he first showed up I was none too pleased. I prefer to keep my wildlife encounters confined to controlled environments like zoos, wildlife parks, or bars. I figured I'd call animal control "one of these days," but after a couple weeks I decided he wasn't hurting anyone so I put off his eviction for a little while. Sure, I'd heard all sorts of horror stories about raccoons; stories which often ended with the evisceration of toddlers and the elderly. But I'd also heard that if I went to Mexico I'd wake up without any kidneys in an icy bathtub in a cheap hotel, or if I flashed my high-beams at someone I was actually initiating a gangland-style hit on some unsuspecting motorist.
It wasn't long after Davey the raccoon (yes, we named him) showed up that others hopped on that gravy train. I have no idea if there is a correlation between the two, but there's a part of me that believes he went around and told his woodland friends that the chick who wears the plaid flannel pajamas and stands on that deck smoking cigarettes didn't give a shit if they all hung out at her house. If they were nice, she might even make them some brownies.
So the rabbits and opossums came to our yard like there was some sort of wildlife exodus and we lived in the middle of the land of flowing milk and honey. I didn't really care, though. What kind of cold-hearted bastard do you have to be to hate bunnies? And opossums aren't exactly the most intimidating of creatures, because when your best defense mechanism is to lay so still that young child could crush your skull with a sledgehammer, you don't exactly inspire a great deal of fear.
I fear that Davey the raccoon's days are numbered now that Gloria the cat has entered the picture, however. Lord knows The Mister can take care of himself, and he actually wanted to beat Davey with the fireplace shovel at one point. Hell, he used to insert lit firecrackers into mice's asses when he was a kid. He has no difficulty serving up a big plate of wildlife justice. I'm not terribly concerned with my own well-being and would probably let an animal gnaw my leg to a bloody stump all while crying about not being able to hurt a defenseless animal and it's alright because I've got another leg, after all. But not long ago something spooked Gloria the little gray princess and, while I'm not sure, I suspect it was the ring-tailed fool living in our attic. And if he ever threatens to harm a hair on her precious little head he will be meeting his maker quicker than he can invite all his woodland friends over for a fondue party.
Hopefully we can all continue the peaceful co-existence that we've been enjoying. I don't care if they use our backyard to have their raves as long as they keep it quiet after midnight. But if I ever hear any Limp Bizkit I'm totally kicking their asses out.
