Rocky Adventures

e-pistle: 11 December 95

Since this seems to be a forum for people who need to whine and complain about any little thing that bothers (or might conceivably bother) them -- here is my contribution. In the interest of fair play, I’m providing a second warning:

Uncontrolled self-righteous venting is about to occur. If you are under 18, or might be offended by such things, LEAVE NOW.

Saturday night, Karen and I were watching our usual mindless television programs (this is not the part I’m complaining about, by the way) -- when from beneath the floor there arose such a clatter that Karen (without leaving the couch, mind you) demanded to know what was the matter. A quick inventory accounted for all of our cats. Our minds were not yet sufficiently beclouded by the TV’s insistent holiday messages to believe that St. Nick might be attempting to visit our chimneyless home. Rather we thought it might be the skunk that has been seen lurking in the vicinity.

Karen immediately began to stamp her feet on the floor to scare the beast away. This did not seem to be entirely prudent to me -- since frightened skunks do not, from all reports, make good housemates. But what was done was done -- and nothing more noxious than commercials for Chiahead filled the room. People who know more (about the sort of vermin that likes to share people’s homes in the winter) have told me that these creatures hate the smell of Lestoil. Supposedly, a rag soaked in the stuff will so offend their delicate sensibilities that they will immediately relocate.

So, using a suitably long pole, I stuffed a Lestoil-soaked portion of former blue jeans into the hole used by the beast. Instantly the house was filled with a noisome stench. The odor of Lestoil was inescapable. Karen heard the animal beat a hasty retreat -- towards the middle of the house. So Ma in her nightgown, and I in my cap, soon settled down to a long winter’s naptha-scented snooze.

Morning came and I went out to look for tracks that might help determine the identity of our nocturnal visitor. It was bitterly cold. Whatever it was had kept close to the house (where there was no snow). The beast’s cover was intact.

Karen went to work, and I ran some errands. Back home by lunch-time, getting ready to do some work on the cannibal book, I was surprised to hear the sound of the animal in the same area. Nocturnal animals do not--unless something is seriously amiss--move around much during the day. I crept outside and peered cautiously around the corner.

There was a huge raccoon, hissing at me and holding his ground. Raccoons usually run away from people unless cornered. I noticed that this creature exhibited all the characteristic charm of a surly drunk. Since our area is plagued by hysteria about rabid raccoons, I was not anxious to become intimate with this ambulatory pestilence. The animal staggered a few steps back, muttering incoherently under his breath. I blocked the entrance hole that led under our floor, and retired to the warmth and relatively vermin-free sanctuary of the house.

Now, I used to be a hunter--and have, in my possession, a dust-covered gun case containing various instruments of dispatch. But knowing about the rabies panic, and trying to be somewhat civic-minded, I tried to do the right thing.

I called the conservation department.

I called the health department.

It was Sunday. No one was home.

There was no answering machine with hints about how to deal with threats to the public good. I called the county’s public information number. There WAS an answering machine there -- it told me about their office hours, hours that did not in any way correspond to the needs of this public-spirited citizen. I called the sheriff’s department to see if they knew whom to call.

The officer who answered sounded puzzled--then suggested that I hold while he asked around. Ah, I thought--now we’re getting somewhere. He got back on the line and said a squad car would be along shortly. I told him I would keep an eye on the raccoon so that it would not effect an escape. He said not to go near it (well, DU-UH!). I hung up and found that the beast was sleeping next to our propane tank.

The squad car arrived. The officer had been just down the street having coffee. I resisted making the obvious Twin Peaks doughnut allusion. I showed him the raccoon.

He said such a sick animal would be dead within a day.

He said that the animal might have rabies or distemper.

I pointed out that it was not the raccoon’s health that interested me.

He asked if I had a gun. I said yes, but that I was reluctant to fire it at my house, in a residential neighborhood. He said it was within my rights, and suggested that I use the shotgun. I pointed out that the condemned creature was curled beside the gas tank, and the gas-line to my kitchen was four inches behind its rheumy head.

He reluctantly admitted that there could be better places for an execution.

He didn’t seem to want to be the one doing the killing. I suggested that I use a long pole to get the animal into the open. This seemed an acceptable compromise. I did so, the raccoon snarling and biting at the aluminum pole. I dragged it by its teeth away from the house. The officer said to take the pole away so he could shoot.

I said I would as soon as the raccoon let go of it.

Three shots later, the ex-raccoon lay twitching in the snow. I expected the officer to take the carcass in to be tested for rabies. After all, if epidemics are to be stopped, the authorities need all the information they can get. Instead, the officer said I would have to bury it, so other animals would not eat it and become infected. He suggested lime or Clorox™ as a method for disinfecting the remains. I did so, carefully Cloroxing™ everything that came in contact with the late varmint. Raccoon spittle on the aluminum pole was especially well-bleached.

What have we learned from all this, aside from the fact that the authorities are more than willing to allow vigilante justice to be carried out on their turf?

Two things:

The downside is that the rabies epidemic may be much worse than the media suggests because not all possible cases are being reported.

The upside is that if St. Nicholas wishes to use the crawl space under our house to effect an entry, he will not find his way blocked by Rocky “Cujo” Raccoon.


Sanscravat (Sic semper Procyon lotor)

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* Dr. Sanscravat is one of many pseudonyms (in this case, "B. cereus") affected by the dilettante who, in real life -- whatever THAT might mean -- goes by the name of Gary Allen. While he hopes that you will find some simple pleasures here, he hastens to add that he (or his lawyers) will hunt you down, rip out your plagiarizing heart, and roast it on a sharp stick if he finds out you've been reproducing anything found in this website without first getting his written permission.

Copyright 2006 by Gary Allen

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