Lakeside Living 3: They Share, Why Can't You?~by Ruth Ross Saucier

Living on a lake in the country means you live alongside a variety of animals, but you definitely rent from raccoons.  

It was 5 a.m. when my spouse went into the adjacent bedroom to get ready for work.  He flipped on the light, pulled some clothes out of the closet, and turned toward the window.  There, peering in from the darkness outside, were three little faces in a row: an entire raccoon litter, eagerly waiting to supervise his work clothes choices. (The window was on the second floor, but there was a roof below the window sill, so they were supported quite well, thank you.) They made eye contact but scampered away when they realized he was too close, too big, and could see them, too.

You see, I had made an inspired decision to build a huge arbor (a twelve-foot-high, fourteen-foot-long, three-foot-wide statement) all around our huge living room window. In my vision, the vines would grow up and over, shading the window in the summer; it would be beautiful! What I did not anticipate was the opportunity the arbor provided. It became a superhighway for a mother raccoon, who loved the arbor for training her triplets to climb, for the safety it provided by getting the kids off the ground, and for the ability to access the roof.  There was a nook on the roof that provided perfect shelter from the wind, great views all around, and the perfect place to nest.  Charming, right?

     Well, there was also a corner up there on the roof just full of beautiful purple raccoon poop.  (Berries were in season.) Later we discovered that the corner was quite aromatic, but more importantly, we also discovered that the composite roof couldn’t hold up to the constant barrage of acidic leavings, so eventually it began to leak. 

     

     The superhighway was also part of a path through the yard. Why walk on grass, when you and the kids can go via arbor? You get to climb up, saunter across, and then head straight down, face first to the other side! After summitting the Great Arbor, the official raccoon path meandered across the deck and into the forest—an invisible path I didn’t know existed. 

     One lovely afternoon I was nearly immobilized, all wrapped up in my hanging chair on the deck. I was reading a good book, but nearly dozing in the afternoon heat when light scraping noises came from my left. Without moving, I peeked through the chair mesh and saw a baby raccoon sauntering across the deck toward me. My adrenaline soared and my eyes popped open, but I managed to stay perfectly still and breathe through my mouth.  Sure enough, right behind Baby One came Baby Two and Baby Three, and oh crap, Mama was last in line.  None of them had seen me yet, but Baby One was within four feet of me. 

     To move or not to move? Tick. Tick. Tick. Wait and hope they walked right by me or reveal I’m here right away? One more second later I made a small involuntary motion, and Mama’s head jerked up and spotted me. The babies were still oblivious though, and by now all three had come within eight feet of me without realizing I was hanging there.  Mama, however, snarled right at me, never losing eye contact. Babies Two and Three immediately took the hint and ran off the deck and across the grass. Hot on their bushy tails, Mama chased them to a spot behind a small bulkhead, where the three of them peered back at me on the deck.  

     Baby One, however, was clearly the family doofus. He looked around, clueless, and ambled so close he was nearly under my chair. Mama leapt over the bulkhead and screamed at him, clearly telling him to get his little raccoon heinie away from the hideous human. By now my brain was gibbering, sure that Mama was going to leap into my lap, rearrange my face, and give me rabies in order to save her one slow learner.  Doofus startled and finally got a clue: he sprinted off to join his family.  Mama proceeded to lead the crew into the forest and circled around to a tree that was about twenty feet away.  She climbed six feet up the tree and chivied her youngsters up the tree ahead of her, periodically stopping to glower down at me, growl and hiss, and push her kids to further heights.  

     Once they were all high enough in the tree she paused, turned back to find me (still in my chair) and make eye contact, and snarled yet again to warn me off before joining the kids at the top of the tree. She clearly held a deep-seated dislike that I tried not to take personally…once my heart stopped pounding in my head, that is.


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