So, last night came the news of the raccoon in the trash can – the trash can that had to go out to the street for morning pick-up. These are the thoughts that ran through my head:
Glad it was Cameron that saw it and not me; I have already had the famous Palatine, Illinois Raccoon Encounter, in which I was watching a late show in a room with six-foot sliding doors on the east side and eight-foot sliding doors on the north side, with a deck going around the corner from one to the other. A forest preserve was close by and I heard a sound and looked over my shoulder and saw these BIG EYES looking right at me. I might have yelled.
With this experience under my belt, my first thought was 10-foot pole . . . with Cameron on one end and the trash can on the other. In my mind, I saw the raccoon pull off an Errol Flynn jump and land on Cameron and nip him . . . with a possibly rabid mouth.
Cameron may or may not have been thinking something similar, although I am fairly certain Errol Flynn was not in his scenario. He said he thought he’d wait to take out the trash. And I said, “Okay.”
But we both dozed off and when I woke up it was time to take Alison to work and she said she got Robert to take the trash out because Cameron hadn’t done it. And I launched into the Raccoon Story, although I think I embellished a little. It was a HUGE raccoon and we would have needed a 100-foot pole with spikes on it, dipped in deadly poison. And we didn’t have an antidote in case there was a little accident.
If the trip to the hospital had been any longer and I had talked more, I suppose the news trucks from the supermarket tabloids would be pulling up out front about now.
I would have screamed bloody murder.