The Raccoon War
It was a sunny day when I ascended the stairs. It was quiet, almost too quiet, somewhere, far off, a dog barked. With a colander balanced on my head, a pair of goggles and a yellow broom handle I prepared for battle. As my head rose slowly into the loft my eyes could not adjust to the darkness fast enough. The broom handle was prepared to swing at anything- I understand civilian casualties. In the thick of ‘the shit’ a squirrel might have been up there nursing a young squirrelette while waving a white flag and I would have bludgeoned it.
My eyes adjusted finally and I could make out the contents of the loft. Several old lamps and a 1920’s sewing machine were stored in the corner and in the middle of the room was a large pile of dung. Years of shit. At the top of the pile were fresh green pellets of rodent poison in the shape of raccoon crap. I truly was knee deep in the shit but the raccoons were gone.
The raccoons had given up and fled. A warm glow of victory filled me and kept me, for the moment, from feeling foolish.