Raccoons & Clyde
I just spent the last two hours making homemade peanut butter & pumpkin dog biscuits for Clyde and the other doggies that will be at the cabin next week for the 4th of July (I must call them doggies or puppies, not dogs, because that's just how it is). I did this despite the fact that Clyde has infuriated me twice in the last two weeks by getting in fights with a raccoon in our backyard.
Do you know what a raccoon sounds like in the wild? It's not Meeko in Disney's Pocahontas. This was no twittering or cheerful chirping. This is a Satanic snarling and growling, interspersed with the occasional high-pitched scream—sounds that are especially disturbing 1) when you hear them mixed in with branches cracking and your dog's whining and barking 2) when you're hearing them from somewhere above you while you stomp around in the dark woods in your pajamas, trying to find your possibly-injured dog by the light of the flashlight on your phone.
Clyde is fine. Mad at me for interrupting his raccoon hunting, but fine. The first night I had to crouch and make my way under branches and through poison ivy to get to him, only to find him staring up at a tree, ignoring my furious half-whisper—"CLYDE. RIGHT. NOW. COME."—and pretending like he didn't see me.
He saw me. I'm not stupid.
The second night I was more worried than the first, if only because there wasn't any loud fighting. There was no noise at all, just a seemingly empty back yard and no dog to be found, despite my "Clyde, time to go to bed!" and my shaking of his leash, rattling of his food bowl. I even opened the garage door and pretending like I was getting in the car. "Clyde! Car ride!"
I peered in the guest room, wondering if somehow I'd lost him in the house and he was just being an ass and ignoring me (typical. See above.) "Did he somehow get out of the fence?" I fretted, walking the perimeter of the yard at 1:30 in the morning. "Did the raccoon launch a surprise attack, kill him, and leave his bloodied body in the woods?" I don't know if you've ever had to walk around a large wooded area in the dark before, but if you're at all prone to paranoia and picturing life as a serial killer movie, it's a little high-stress.
Becoming more and more worried, more and more angry, more and more antsy at the shadows, I go inside for a bigger flashlight and find our super duper camping lantern, which does the trick. Now I'm casting a nice solid 20 foot circle of light around me as I walk around. This time, as I round the far edge of the wooded area, I hear that growling again. And this time, it's a relief, because if there's a raccoon growling, I'm pretty sure there's a Clyde sitting in the woods, staring up at a tree and ignoring me.
I raise the lantern up, which sets off some movement above me. High up in a bare branch are two glowing yellow eyes looking down at me. Still no sound from the ground, no sign of Clyde. I walk along the edge of the woods, keeping one eye on the growling raccoon above me, trying to find holes in the trees through which I might be able to see my dog. And there he is, finally, staring up at the tree the raccoon is wrapped around, refusing to look at me, like if he doesn't acknowledge my presence I won't realize he's there.
Eventually I cajol him out with a mixture of threats, promises of treats—"Biscuit! Car Ride! Go for a walk? Let's go get dinner."—and forceful yelling, and he follows me around for the next fifteen minutes, like I'm just supposed to forgive him. I spend the rest of the evening looking up ways to train your dog to come when you call him, even when there's a raccoon in a tree.
Do you know what a raccoon sounds like in the wild? It's not Meeko in Disney's Pocahontas. This was no twittering or cheerful chirping. This is a Satanic snarling and growling, interspersed with the occasional high-pitched scream—sounds that are especially disturbing 1) when you hear them mixed in with branches cracking and your dog's whining and barking 2) when you're hearing them from somewhere above you while you stomp around in the dark woods in your pajamas, trying to find your possibly-injured dog by the light of the flashlight on your phone.
Clyde is fine. Mad at me for interrupting his raccoon hunting, but fine. The first night I had to crouch and make my way under branches and through poison ivy to get to him, only to find him staring up at a tree, ignoring my furious half-whisper—"CLYDE. RIGHT. NOW. COME."—and pretending like he didn't see me.
He saw me. I'm not stupid.
The second night I was more worried than the first, if only because there wasn't any loud fighting. There was no noise at all, just a seemingly empty back yard and no dog to be found, despite my "Clyde, time to go to bed!" and my shaking of his leash, rattling of his food bowl. I even opened the garage door and pretending like I was getting in the car. "Clyde! Car ride!"
I peered in the guest room, wondering if somehow I'd lost him in the house and he was just being an ass and ignoring me (typical. See above.) "Did he somehow get out of the fence?" I fretted, walking the perimeter of the yard at 1:30 in the morning. "Did the raccoon launch a surprise attack, kill him, and leave his bloodied body in the woods?" I don't know if you've ever had to walk around a large wooded area in the dark before, but if you're at all prone to paranoia and picturing life as a serial killer movie, it's a little high-stress.
Becoming more and more worried, more and more angry, more and more antsy at the shadows, I go inside for a bigger flashlight and find our super duper camping lantern, which does the trick. Now I'm casting a nice solid 20 foot circle of light around me as I walk around. This time, as I round the far edge of the wooded area, I hear that growling again. And this time, it's a relief, because if there's a raccoon growling, I'm pretty sure there's a Clyde sitting in the woods, staring up at a tree and ignoring me.
I raise the lantern up, which sets off some movement above me. High up in a bare branch are two glowing yellow eyes looking down at me. Still no sound from the ground, no sign of Clyde. I walk along the edge of the woods, keeping one eye on the growling raccoon above me, trying to find holes in the trees through which I might be able to see my dog. And there he is, finally, staring up at the tree the raccoon is wrapped around, refusing to look at me, like if he doesn't acknowledge my presence I won't realize he's there.
Eventually I cajol him out with a mixture of threats, promises of treats—"Biscuit! Car Ride! Go for a walk? Let's go get dinner."—and forceful yelling, and he follows me around for the next fifteen minutes, like I'm just supposed to forgive him. I spend the rest of the evening looking up ways to train your dog to come when you call him, even when there's a raccoon in a tree.