Raccoons and Rabid Dogs
As I sit here Clyde is staring at me and whimpering in the most pathetic way, because all he wants with every. fiber. of. his. being is to go outside to chase the raccoon I dragged him away from an hour ago.
Fall is Clyde's favorite time of year. He loves spending his evenings outside no matter what season, but most nights he'll be scratching at the door to come in for bed around 11pm or midnight. Once the temperatures start getting cooler, though, it's not unusual for Michael or me (okay, usually Michael) to have to go out and make him come in so we can go to bed. And it seems like he's more interested in other animals in the fall – squirrels that he ignores in 90 degree weather now get chased up trees when it's 60 degrees.
A few nights ago, Michael heard Clyde's high-pitched, frantic barking and went to investigate, assuming he'd treed some poor creature or chased a deer to the fence. Instead he found Clyde engaged in an intense battle with a black, cat-sized animal. And Clyde was winning.
Clyde is incredibly lazy, so the thought that he could actually be fast enough to catch another animal boggles my mind. But there he was, with whatever-it-was IN his mouth. Michael tried to pull Clyde away and the animal grabbed on to Clyde's tail, only letting go when Michael hit it over the head a few times with the leash.
When Clyde came inside that night, he was wild-eyed and panting, like a rabid dog on cocaine. I don't really know what it's like to be on cocaine, but he definitely had a drugged haze to his eyes. Blood lust. And there was actual blood – not his – on his fur and paws.
So I guess now that he's had a taste of the hunt, Clyde thinks he's some kind of lion of the backyard, the predator of Mud Creek. Because when I went to get him tonight, I found him trying to dig under the fence to get the raccoon that was growling at him, a raccoon that did not give two shits that I was shining a flashlight in its face from two feet away. I tried to tell Clyde – raccoons are mean, man. You don't want to mess with them. That raccoon did not care that you were trying to get him. He did not care that a human was behind you. He was standing at the fence taunting us both, hissing and growling and staring at us with his beady eyes. He would have bitten off both our faces. Maybe you can catch a cat, but you're not going to be able to best a raccoon, kid.
Clyde doesn't care. He wanted at him. And now he's not going to let it go. Looking over his shoulder at me from his position by the door, he whines a long, whimpering howl, kept from his destiny as king of the suburban wilderness by his stupid human.
Fall is Clyde's favorite time of year. He loves spending his evenings outside no matter what season, but most nights he'll be scratching at the door to come in for bed around 11pm or midnight. Once the temperatures start getting cooler, though, it's not unusual for Michael or me (okay, usually Michael) to have to go out and make him come in so we can go to bed. And it seems like he's more interested in other animals in the fall – squirrels that he ignores in 90 degree weather now get chased up trees when it's 60 degrees.
A few nights ago, Michael heard Clyde's high-pitched, frantic barking and went to investigate, assuming he'd treed some poor creature or chased a deer to the fence. Instead he found Clyde engaged in an intense battle with a black, cat-sized animal. And Clyde was winning.
Clyde is incredibly lazy, so the thought that he could actually be fast enough to catch another animal boggles my mind. But there he was, with whatever-it-was IN his mouth. Michael tried to pull Clyde away and the animal grabbed on to Clyde's tail, only letting go when Michael hit it over the head a few times with the leash.
When Clyde came inside that night, he was wild-eyed and panting, like a rabid dog on cocaine. I don't really know what it's like to be on cocaine, but he definitely had a drugged haze to his eyes. Blood lust. And there was actual blood – not his – on his fur and paws.
So I guess now that he's had a taste of the hunt, Clyde thinks he's some kind of lion of the backyard, the predator of Mud Creek. Because when I went to get him tonight, I found him trying to dig under the fence to get the raccoon that was growling at him, a raccoon that did not give two shits that I was shining a flashlight in its face from two feet away. I tried to tell Clyde – raccoons are mean, man. You don't want to mess with them. That raccoon did not care that you were trying to get him. He did not care that a human was behind you. He was standing at the fence taunting us both, hissing and growling and staring at us with his beady eyes. He would have bitten off both our faces. Maybe you can catch a cat, but you're not going to be able to best a raccoon, kid.
Clyde doesn't care. He wanted at him. And now he's not going to let it go. Looking over his shoulder at me from his position by the door, he whines a long, whimpering howl, kept from his destiny as king of the suburban wilderness by his stupid human.