What the raccoons know

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It was only an animal, so why the hell was he so nervous? He stared at the white fence that separated his garden from the wilderness. A wild scratching was coming from behind it.

The scratching was soon replaced by the scraping of dirt and stones. Mark sat in front of the stretch of fence that lined his backyard, his eyes fixed on the point where the animal was trying to get in.

Damned beasts.

Mark briefly entertained the thought of grabbing a beer while the animal dug its way into his property, but kept himself firmly planted on the wooden steps of his back porch. He might miss it coming in. Besides, he'd need both hands to operate the rifle which lay on his knees. He fiddled with the safety catch, then checked the spare ammunition he'd placed on the steps. The four shells were perfectly lined as if they were toy soldiers. He doubted he would need them. After all, it was only one animal.

Yes, the same animal that managed to dodge your bullets.

It came a week ago through the same stretch of fencing. Mark was busy brewing his evening coffee when a series of sharp barks sent him flying through the house and through the back porch, rifle in hand. He bust through the door to find himself witnessing a deadly fight. His dog Daisy's hide was matted with red, while a wild raccoon confronted her. It had barely a scratch on it, and its teeth were bared at the old hound. A sizeable hole at the base of the garden fence told Mark that the wire mesh he had planted in the ground had proved no more than a setback for the animal.

Daisy was panting, and only barely acknowledged Mark with a weak wag of her tail. Her eyes were fixed on her adversary, who was hissing and spitting, its fur raised like a porcupine. Mark ran at the raccoon, brandishing his rifle like a club.

"Get out of here!"

But the raccoon merely took a step back and hissed at him. Mark stopped dead in his tracks. He had never seen a raccoon be this aggressive when confronted, unless it was desperate, or rabid. Mark gave a worried glance at Daisy's wounds. She would be fine after a vaccination, but there was only one cure for a rabid wild animal in this stage of infection.

He took the safety off the rifle and aimed straight for the animal's chest. But the raccoon, as if it realized the danger it was in, skirted sideways before Mark could shoot. Then it darted for the hole it had made for the hole it had made in the fence. Mark trained the sights on the fleeing animal and pulled the trigger, the crack of the shot fading off into the distance. But the raccoon kept on going. It ducked its head in the hole, and disappeared onto the other side with a flick of its tail.

And now it was back. The digging and scratching continued underneath his fence. Clearly it hadn't learnt its lesson. As soon as he had heard the noise coming from his back fence, Mark locked Daisy in the basement. He didn't want to take any chances with her. She'd taken enough of a beating the last time. Now, it would be him against the beast. Alone. Mark gripped his rifle tightly, his fingers drumming on its wooden frame. The raccoon was taking an awfully long time to get through the new wire mesh. But it would eventually get through.

A tuft of grass wiggled as the animal got through the wire and made its way through the soft dirt. Mark got up and took a few steps forwards. He pointed the rifle straight at the wriggling blades of grass. He would let it take a few steps inside, just enough for him to take aim. This time he wouldn't miss.

The tuft broke open, and out popped a small head, with long whiskers and dark markings under its eyes. It shook off the loose dirt and emerged from the ground, taking a few cautious steps out of the fence's shade and into the sunlight. Mark blinked a few times, then lowered his rifle.

The small raccoon's ragged fur clung to its bony frame like a wet rug. When it wobbled forward, its shoulder blades protruded from its back. It sniffed around the hole, it's curious brown eyes darting left and right with curiosity, before they settled on Mark, who was only ten paces away. A raccoon cub, no older than a few months. Not at all the fierce one from last week.

So, his shot did connect the other week, taking a mother out by the looks of it. And this was all left of her miserable life. One scrawny cub that did not look as if would survive the end of the week. But what if by some chance it did? It would cause no less trouble than its mother had. Of this he was sure. It would come back here, and if it got into a fight with Daisy...

It was dark and he was once again next to Daisy, her rasping breath getting slower and slower. The strips of cloth he'd wrapped around her to stop the bleeding were coming loose as he sped down road to the nearest vet. The steering wheel was slick with blood.

He wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow these beasts to make a misery out of his life. One bullet was a small price to pay for some peace of mind. Mark lifted his rifle again and pointed it at the cub, who had completely forgotten about him, and was now busy sniffing a patch of flowers. Its small black nose quivered searching for something to eat. It tried to bite the stem of a flower, only to spit it out again with what looked like a frown.

Mark took a step forward, rifle still pointed at the cub. The small raccoon stopped inspecting the flowers and turned its head towards him, its nose hard at work at trying to catch his scent. It took a few uncertain steps towards Mark. He clenched his jaw. It licked its nose, as if anticipating a meal, then trotted towards him with not a hint of fear.

Mark aimed for its chest.

The cub stopped just a few paces in front of him, it's curious gaze searching him. If lifted a paw as if to take a step forward, then fell back on its hind legs.

Clumsy. Just like Daisy used to be.

A drop of sweat fell off Marks nose. He looked straight into the cub's eyes. Two round dark circles in the middle of dark patches of fur. He tightened his grip on the rifle. They were Daisy's eyes when she was little. The same shade, the same innocent look. Another drop of sweat dripped from his nose.

One bullet only.

Mark looked at the garden that was to become the final resting place of the small animal. The grass was as green as it'd ever been and the soft breeze was caressing the trees. Daisy's face swam in front of him. What a pity it was to have to die on such a day.

He lowered his gaze back to the raccoon, but it had gone. But before he could move, Mark felt a tug on his trouser. He looked down, to see that the raccoon had latched onto his trousers with its little agile hands. It was sniffing his leg. Then, deciding it was not edible, it started to climb.

Mark froze. The moment before he'd been intent on killing the small raccoon, and now he was being as careful as possible with the scrawny thing.

The raccoon felt his way up his shirt and finally reached his shoulder, where it perched like an oversized, grey parrot. Mark lifted his hand to it, the other still holding the rifle.

Mark felt something wet touch his ear. It was licking him! Mark slowly placed his hand on the animal's shoulder. He could feel the bones under the loose skin. Then, he lifted the raccoon by the scruff. It struggled a bit, then yielded and let itself go limp. Mark brought it up to his face to take a better look. The cub looked straight at him. Its eyes weren't brown, but hazel.

What a troublemaker you'll be.

In that moment, all though of harming it disappeared, and there was nothing more he could do but cup the small raccoon in his hands as if to protect it. Mark headed back to the house, his rifle lying abandoned in the wet grass. 

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