The Raccoon War
The shed behind my house was built in 1895. It is a large building with a loft that has been used for storage and a workroom for over 100 years. With time the wood has begun to rot and the roof sag. Raccoons have made their home in the loft for, what I imagine to be, many years. Generation after generation has lived in the loft. The first raccoon off the boat from the motherland probably set up a little raccoon shop here and spoke in a delightful little brogue. “Top of the mornin’ to ya gov’nor,” he might say- just before he sticks you with a sharpened spoon.
It has been my policy, based on fear, to ignore the inhabitants of my shed. But after a few years of this uneasy detente I decided to attack. I would take back the shed.
I consulted with Bones who offered to come over and “shoot the motherfuckers dead.” I declined doubting, foolishly, that Bones even had a gun. I found out a few years later that Bones did, in fact, have a gun. The old men at the coffee bar made fun of my attack plans, but these were couch quarterbacks. They didn’t know what it was like to be in the shit. Of course they had all been to Vietnam but that didn’t count. Besides I didn’t need advice on how to lose. (I kept that little gem to myself)