Missy the Raccoon

Jane and I had just moved into a new house in a new, heavily wooded subdivision in far out northwest Austin.  Ours was the only occupied house on the street at the time.  One night while Jane was at choir practice, I was sitting in my favorite chair reading a book when I heard a noise out in the garage.  I thought this was rather strange, because I had no neighbors, and there were not even any streetlights yet.  Concerned, I cautiously opened the door from the kitchen into the garage and saw that I had left the garage door open.  I closed and locked it and then started back into the warm house.  It was January and very cold, and I was not wearing a jacket.  On about my second step I realized that the lawn mower in the far corner of the garage had a half grown raccoon standing on it.  In fact, she defiantly had her fists up and was ready to fight me should I threaten her.  Little did she know I was the raccoon lover of all times, and I hardly missed my stride as I kept going back into the house not even looking at her. Animals read your body language.   I left the door into the kitchen open.  I am sure I was wide-eyed, with a large grin on my face in anticipation of what was going to happen next.

I walked back into the living room and sat in a chair that allowed me to see the kitchen area out of the corner of my eye.  I sat quietly with my arm dangling over the edge of the chair and waited.  Sure enough, after about five minutes the little creature came cautiously into the house, a few steps at a time, stopping, looking, standing up, sniffing the air, and then, satisfied, taking a few steps into the carpeted living room.  She used her nose like we would use a flashlight in a dark room.  She was now about twelve feet away from my dangling arm and hand, but I looked straight ahead, not at her, and not moving.  Finally she crept up to me, stood up on her back feet, sniffed my arm and hand, studied me, and then, seemingly satisfied that I was no threat, she began to explore the rest of the room.  Did I mention that I had put the ancient poodle into the master bedroom before she came in?

After she had again made a complete circuit of the living room, dining area and the kitchen, she apparently decided she liked a corner of the formal dining area best, because that is where she backed up into a corner, made herself into a ball with her head tucked down, and went to sleep.  I guess she had completely evaluated the environment and me and gotten no hostile feedback, she was tired, and this place was warm and comfortable and safe.  I was glad. No, ecstatic.

I quietly got up, checked on the dog in the bedroom, picked up the phone and called the church and asked someone to get Jane to the phone.  When she finally picked it up, I told her who had come to visit and to be careful when she came in so as not to scare the little rascal.  And that was how we met Missy. 

Missy was quite the lady, too.  Nice, compatible, often very curious, but never destructive like everyone thinks.  In fact, if Walt Disney were still alive, I would tell him how much he had maligned raccoons when he made movies because he always had them tearing up the place.  That is just not who Missy was at all.  I had this guest for six weeks until the weather warmed up the great outdoors where she wanted to eventually be.  But during those six weeks, we became good friends and both of us learned a lot about the other one.

Jane got home from choir practice about nine that night, all wide-eyed and curious like the raccoon, which was now awake again.  She walked into the living room where Missy was still adapting to it all.  Like me. she just sat down in a chair and tried to be non-threatening.  Missy cautiously sniffed at her feet and clothes to figure out if she was friend or foe.  Both of us were careful in exploring our limits with her.  Jane tried to pet her and was admonished with a sharp tooth that brought a little blood, but in doing so, Jane saw that it was her fault and not the raccoon’s.  The critter had not chomped down on her finger; Jane, misunderstanding the warning, had simply too quickly yanked her hand out of the raccoon’s mouth, catching it on a tooth.  Pretty good, Jane. 

After awhile Jane again tried petting Missy and this time when Missy cautioned her, Jane realized that Missy was just saying, “Easy, now, and don’t go too fast,” because Jane just left her fingers still and Missy held them with her mouth without applying pressure.  Amazing, I thought.  She was communicating with us with her own body language.  We only had to be patient and learn from her what scared her and what she would tolerate. 

We knew we had to let the dog in on this adventure so I went to the master bedroom and opened the door, releasing Bobo, the old poodle we inherited when my sister and her family left Austin to live in Europe.  He was old and cranky, and when he saw the raccoon, he froze still like a statue, unbelieving and obviously undecided on what to do.  Missy was young and growing, and she slept a lot after her exploratory adventures, and this time she had to evaluate a funny looking dog that just stood still and stared at her.  Like us, the dog just remained still and quiet, thank goodness.  Finally, Missy, satisfied that things had not changed with yet another very furry creature in her life, and I suppose to let the adrenaline subside in her system, put her head down between her back feet, curled up and went to sleep right in front of us on the warm shag carpet.  Bobo relaxed a little, and after awhile, he crept toward the coon, slowly, sniffing at each increment and stretching out as far as he could in case he need to fight or run.  Finally, he got close enough to sniff the raccoon’s fur and sense it with its nose.  Seemingly satisfied for the moment, he finally just sat down close to Missy, cocked his head sideways and stared as if to say, “I’ll be danged, lookey here.”

It quickly became obvious that this half grown raccoon was by far the dominant of the two creatures, and when she was awake, the raccoon kept the dog at bay.  If Bobo got too curious,  Missy would quickly rake a sharp claw across his snout, and Bobo would yelp away into a corner or behind the furniture.  Hoping to set our own limits on what behavior we would accept with the raccoon, we tried rolling up a newspaper to lightly swat her on the butt to let her know we did not want any fighting.  Missy did not like that, but it was an effective, though not totally limiting, measure to keep the peace.  In fact, one night after a few weeks, we were all in the living room together; Jane and I were reading and quietly keeping an eye on the critters and how they were doing with each another.

The dog was dreaming at my feet, and the raccoon was lying on the cooler limestone hearth of the fireplace, the spot she liked best of all.  She got up, stretched like a child in the morning, got down on the carpet and headed for the much cooler garage, where she stayed when we were not home.  When she got abreast of the old sleeping dog, she reached out and slapped the hell out of him and then ran like the dickens to the garage to avoid her swat.  Bobo yelped, having been rudely awakened and hardly knowing what had just happened.  We died laughing. 

Missy was really curious about all that hair on the top of Jane’s head.  Jane wore a hairpiece  (called a “fall”) to get that effect, and it was pinned in with long hairpins.  When Jane sat on the floor and bent her head, Missy would “groom” Jane's hair, and when she ran across one of those hairpins she would carefully remove it, examine it, drop it on the floor, and then go after another one.  Missy was particular about allowing you to pet her, but she had her favorite spots, like on the back where she could not reach, and when she had enough, she let you know by her moving away.  

The running water from a bathroom spout or a kitchen sink fascinated her, and the swirling water in a flushing commode was almost too much.  She would often scurry to a cabinet top to watch us fool with that magic.  One night a friend who was a life insurance salesman came to make a sales call at our home.  Due to a hunting accident, he was on crutches.  Dave Clark was amazed and fascinated by the guest raccoon roaming our living room as he and I talked.  He also accepted a beer from me as we discussed what kind of policy I should buy.  The beer eventually signaled for relief, and he hobbled to the hall bathroom while I went to the refrigerator to replenish his glass.  When he returned to the living room, he was flustered and red-faced.  He then explained that the raccoon had followed him into the bathroom, and what a challenge it was trying to balance on one foot, keep his crutches upright, and his aim accurate with a raccoon trying to peek into the bowl and play with the golden stream.  Over the years, he told that story to anyone who would listen about one of the strangest sales calls he ever made.

It was a cold winter that year, and we often had a fire going in the fireplace, something Missy accepted without much curiosity, seeming grateful for the warmth it provided.  I remember many evenings with her as she luxuriated in the comfort of her new home.  It was a curious bunch, two fascinated young adults, an unkempt old poodle and a young lady of a raccoon, all silent in the warmth of the living room, yet all quite aware of one another. 

It was not lost on me how unique this experience was and how similar it was to the experience of Sterling North, the author of the book Rascal.  That book was about the author’s adventures when he was ten years old, living with his father after his mom had died.  He was an only child and very lonely in his grief when a young raccoon came into his life.  His father totally understood and was seemingly glad for his young motherless child to have such a friend and such a unique experience.  It shaped North for the rest of his life and gave him the memories he needed to tell one of the all-time best-selling animal stories ever written.  Even as an adult, North, along with his wife and three children, continued to search out others’ experiences with raccoons, and he penned a second book:  Raccoons are the Brightest People.   That book has lain by my bedside for decades now, and its pages are full of people like Sterling North who spent their lives getting to know wild creatures, especially raccoons.

Missy left one night in early March  after six weeks with us and when the temperature warmed with the pleasant gulf breeze from the southeast.  It was a sure sign the cold winter was over, and it seemed to bring Missy a message that her time with humans was past. I was puttering in the garage when she walked outside onto the driveway, raised up, sniffed the warm air, looked back at me and then walked into the night, down the street past newly occupied houses, and then into the darkened woods.  I got into my car and drove the street, hoping to come across her one more time, hoping she would want to come back, but I knew better.  She was going where she belonged.

I write this now in 2010, many years later, hoping my kids and their kids will enjoy the story and remember our experiences, and hoping they will always respect the little rascals that live even in densely populated towns.  They certainly are a loveable bunch, and I hope my kin will become part of the peace treaty I have with the animals like that.

Since that time I have released several orphaned or injured raccoons back into the wild after a bit of rehab.  I have always had it in the back of my mind that I would someday, before I die, get to live somewhere that would be compatible with raccoons, like some people I have met.  One guy and his wife living on a cliff side in Austin, Texas, have a nightly feeding time on their wooden deck for a colony of wild raccoons that have learned how to get a tasty free meal.  Over the years, the providers have watched generation after generation come to their house at night for supper.  I would love to do that.