Uninvited

It all started about 2 months ago. Actually, no, it was way before that. It began last summer as a mild annoyance, but would eventually evolve into something that would consume my every waking moment.

Maddy, Zach and I were eating our dinner in the kitchen one summer evening. “Daddy lookit!!” Zach exclaimed. “a wacoon!” “two of dem!!”

And indeed there were. Two gigantic specimens, one of which had its paws way up high on the glass, trying to get a look at what was being served for supper. Immediately a feeling of derision swept over me, as I gazed over to the fence into my neighbour’s backyard. It was my ganja-smokin’ slacker of a neighbour, who was to blame for this intrusion.

OK, so lets get this out of the way early. I am not an animal hater, but I certainly don’t spend my summers with Greenpeace either. I try and avoid squirrels if they dart in the way of my car, but I have to be honest, I wouldn’t be risking my insurance premiums to spare one flea encrusted rodent.

Carver our narcoleptic cat lives a pampered existence, and Bluey our tropical fighting fish, has clearly discovered the fountain of youth in Pickering Ontario. Bluey is a hundred and thirty years old (in fish years) with no expiry date in sight. Our animals are well cared for indeed.

I don’t give a crap how cute everyone thinks they are. Raccoons are a menace. They eat anything – and I mean anything – and they are destructive in their never-ending quest for your rubbish.

The Red List of Conservation Status, is a globally recognized ranking system that indicates the likelihood of a particular species ever becoming extinct. On a seven-point scale with ‘Extinct’ on the far left and ‘No Threat’ on the right, the ‘Procyon lotor’ (or common Raccoon) falls squarely to the very far right of the conservation scale, in the ‘Least Concern’ category. The only predator they face in my neighborhood is the automobile grill, and sadly, there are precious few road fatalities.

As my son gets right up close to the sliding glass doors in our kitchen, I am struck by how menacing they really are, when you look closely. “Look at those claws!” he exclaims, as he lays right down on the tile floor to get a better look.
Yes, do look at those claws.

Back in his misspent youth, Carver was more active and would routinely prowl the neighbourhood looking for trouble. One night he found it around the back end of a Skunk. He stunk something fierce, and we couldn’t let him in the house until he was cleaned up. I asked my lovely wife what we should do, for clearly he likely wasn’t going to sit still for a bath like our old dog Malcolm did.

“No worries, we’ll do it in the laundry tub” Maddy said.
I donned a pair of thick rubber gloves as instructed, and held him firm under the armpits. Maddy was on soap-and-scrub duty. Sounded like a reasonable plan.

To this very day I have never forgotten the Cujo-like transformation of this normally docile lounger. All four legs began to flail about at a dizzying speed, as soon as Carver realized what the heck was happening. Pinwheels of Death is the only way to describe his flying feet. I feared for my jugular.

Now remember, this cat lived with us, loved us, yet now he was actively trying to kill me. More importantly though, his claws are tiny little things compared to the claws of the rodents that were sitting upon my deck, gazing at the BBQ chicken on my dinner table. Big black menacing nails, that could easily peel back my screen door like it was a wispy spider web.

“Come Zach, ignore them and eat your dinner, otherwise they’ll think this is their home, and we really don’t want it to be.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because they are dirty animals, and they eat garbage”
Zach obediently hopped back up on the chair, and changed his stance so he could keep a watchful eye upon our audience.

I suppose I really can’t blame my neighbour for the raccoon problem, even though he harbors them in a dilapidated shed in his backyard. I have certainly heard how difficult it is to get them out, once they get settled. I suppose that while having these animals roam around upon my deck is unsavory, it’d be a lot worse if they lived in my backyard. Better they bunk-down on that side of the fence, than over here.

We finished our dinner, and eventually the hungry raccoons slowly lumbered off the deck, and scrambled up the fence. This produced enough of a commotion so as to make us think they were burrowing through the fence, rather than climbing over it. The Klein family cleared the dishes, watched a movie, and eventually bedded down for the night.

The next morning I came down the stairs with a song in my heart, for it was Saturday, and I had a whole lot of nothing to get done.

“You’re not going to be happy” Maddy said, staring out the backyard window.
“Why?”
“Look.”
She pointed at our BBQ, which was just off to the left of the sliding glass door as you exit upon the deck.

The drip pan below the unit was pulled halfway out, bent and twisted so badly it looked as if someone had taken a pair of tin-snips and a hammer to it. All around the BBQ were grease stains on the brand-new composite deck boards. The grease stains were in the form of dozens of large raccoon footprints, and they led in a trail away from the BBQ and up the cedar steps. Clearly the little masked bandits sat and actually washed their faces and paws in my saltwater pool, after beating the shit out of my Weber.

I could feel my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands, and Maddy had that sad look on her face. The one that said..
‘Oh no, here we go again’.
The one that seemed to say..
‘Mudd, why can’t you just relax, ever? Its only a raccoon, just clean the deck and be done with it, we’ll keep the drip tray in the garage or something.’

Ah, if only it were that simple.
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For the next 3 hours, I tried a wide range of products to try and remove the grease stains. Composite decks! Indestructible! Maintenance Free! Easy to Clean! The deck designer’s words rang in my ears as my teeth gnashed. I just couldn’t seem to get the dang stains out, no matter how hard I tried. My mind filled with plots of revenge, but I knew in my heart that being nocturnal, our new friends had a huge advantage over us humans. I would simply have to outsmart them.

Eventually I discovered how to get most of the grease stains out. Composite deck boards are essentially made of plastic and wood fibers, with a fake simulated grain. A fine sandpaper, folded and used on its edge, could coax the stains out of the grooves. It was painstaking work, and a real pain the ass. If I wanted to avoid this task in the future, I would have figure out a way to let them know they weren’t welcome here anymore.

I rummaged around in the laundry room cupboards for a bit, until I found what I was looking for – a plastic spray bottle. I poured a bunch of pepper into the bottle, added warm water and swished it around. I smiled as envisioned the fat masked bandit’s facial expressions as they licked my BBQ. Victory would smell like cayenne pepper.

I washed the BBQ thoroughly, cleaned the grills, removed the drip tray and sprayed the pepper mist where I figured they would attempt to ravage the unit. One lick, and they’d be scampering away for good. I sat down to admire my handiwork with a cold beer and a cigar, celebrating my inevitable victory. I would that day, toast to the triumph of cranial ability over a millennia of instinct and foraging.

The next morning, like a scene from the movie Groundhog Day…
“You’re not going to be happy” Maddy said, staring out the backyard window.
“FUCK!! WHY!??” I said, racing to the backyard patio door.
“Look.” She gazed sadly out at our BBQ

And there it was. Even worse than before. The little shits, having no morsels to snack on from the drip tray, stood on their hind legs and stuck their head up inside the exposed underbelly of the BBQ. I shook with rage contemplating the cleanup job ahead of me. Once again, my thoughts quickly drifted to revenge.

Ultimately, I ended up buying a large unsightly plastic BBQ drip tray that I placed under the unit, to catch the mess as the overgrown pests ate. I covered the BBQ with its factory black vinyl cover, but it made no difference. They peeled that back like an apron, and probably enjoyed the enclosed dining experience. Clearly the cayenne pepper only added a Cajun-like flair to the meal, and posed no impediment to their fine dining experience.

After I had cleaned up all the mess (again) and as I placed the large BBQ tray under the unit, I couldn’t help but feel a little stupid. It was as if I was setting a table for our guests, smoothing out the table cloth, and asking them if there was anything else I could do to make their stay more comfortable.

After they dined on the grease morsels, our uninvited friends began to lounge upon our outdoor furniture. This après foraging ritual left disgusting paw prints and black and grey hairs matted to the off-white fabric. The job of cleaning the deck was soon paired with the task of cleaning the cushions too. And daily, my blood pressure rose.

Maddy’s mom and dad live on picturesque lake Nippissing up north, where they ironically not only embrace nature, they encourage it to come hang out on their porch.
As I sadly recounted my tail of defeat at the hands of the crafty raccoon, I could tell by the look in his eyes that he understood my dilemma. Maddy’s dad in fact looked a bit fearful, as he probably pondered what it might be like to fight the same war I was waging. While I cried into my rye and diet coke, he got up from his easy chair, and quickly returned with a mail order catalog. It was folded open to a product that he was confident would end this skirmish forever.

The catalog was from a company called Stokes, and they primarily sell seeds through the mail. Apparently, according to the back cover, these folks have been supplying vegetable seed and garden accessories since 1878. Surely they know more than I do about pest control. My eyes widened as I read the product description…

“ Humane and effective, this maintenance-free electronic yard protector keeps animals away from your property without messy, expensive chemicals. Repels dogs, cats, deer, (YES!!!!) raccoons, skunks, opossums, rodents, bats, insects and other creatures. Choose between continuous or motion sensor operations. Target specific pests by adjusting the powerful sonic & ultra-sonic sound frequencies. Pests activate the built-in motion sensor when they move within the 4000 sq ft/1200 sq m coverage zone. This weatherproof unit can be mounted anywhere, and runs on either AC adaptor (included) or 4 x 1.5v "C" batteries. Rid your space of unwanted pests! Order the B9003 Yard Guard Ultrasonic Repeller today! “


Holy shit, how do I get this thing air-lifted out to me right now!? I didn’t even care about the price. I was ready to order online that very second, and head back home and wait for the mailman. These bastards were gonna fear the Raccoon Neuralizer! (which is what I quickly re-branded the unit to be).

Yes, please, I’ll take two.

In the end, with the anticipated voice of reason, Maddy pointed out that the units had a range of 4000 sf, and suggested I only need buy the one unit. It arrived within days, and I installed it right next to their goddamn heads in BBQ alcove. I even hard-wired it with dedicated power, and a wireless remote. I had visions of zapping their brains with an unbearable sonic onslaught. I smiled as I envisioned them running with their eyes screwed shut in agony – away from my backyard oasis, never to return.

Oh, if only it were that easy.
The invaders had not yet even begun to fight.

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For a while there was peace. I never did get the satisfaction of watching the effects of the raccoon cranial-cooker. I never got to inflict the sonic pain with my hand-held remote-control-of-deterrence, but instead, had to be satisfied in enabling the device each night before retiring to my bed. However, each morning I awoke to a clean deck, with no evidence of our unwanted guests. Clearly the Sonic Neuralizer was working its magic, and the raccoons were leaving us alone to enjoy our summer retreat.

We would sometimes spot the fat mother and her babies navigating ‘the superhighway’ the affectionate term we use to describe the fencing that crisscrosses suburban backyards. The eight foot high barriers between us all, erected to keep all those neighbourly influences at bay. The mother, plump with a belly-full of the careless homeowner’s refuse, struggled to get her fat gut over each raised fencepost. She nudged along the little ones, passing along her carefully honed skills. The same skills they would one day tap into, to carry on the tradition.

Summer faded to fall, the Neuralizer emitting its comforting motion-activated squeaks, and fall gave way to the inevitability of winter. As we slumbered in our cozy home, so the raccoons plotted their vengeance. The smallest, but craftiest female of the litter grew in the neighbour’s shed over the cold months, and as spring approached it was time to begin the cycle again. Time to get busy.

It was a long cold season, and Maddy had grown tired of gazing at the depressing vision of our winterized backyard. She convinced me to remove the big black pool cover, and ready the deck for the few short months we would have outdoors. It was because of this effort, that we were not caught off guard when a sudden and freakish warm front descended upon Pickering. Unexpectedly we were basked in summer-like heat and humidity in the middle of April. We sparked up the heater, and fifty eight was soon eighty two degrees of salinated pool water. We invited some friends over so they too could expose their milky ‘Ontario Skin’ to the sun. That is when we realized the tables had turned.

The kids took turns jumping off the platform overlooking the pool, and water cascaded off their bodies while they stood waiting their turn to cannon-ball. The water poured down through the stairs, and in between the deck boards. And that is when we first heard them.

A high-pitched chattering that bordered on hysteria, emanated from under the deck. A vicious hissing could also be heard among the chorus, and it was clear they were back. Second Generation Hell, with a new plan.

All the kids got on their hands an knees to see if they could catch a glimpse of the cute critters, but there was precious little space between the boards, so there was lots of disappointment.

“Leave them alone” Maddy said.
“They are just babies, they’ll grow up soon, and leave for the forest”

Oh, if only that were their plan.
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That summer day left us as quickly as she came, and we were once again rudely plunged back into early Spring weather. Cold nights, rainy days, with little time spent outdoors. We forgot about our visitors, and got back to the business of life.. with its routine responsibilities, children’s birthday parties, laundry and grocery shopping.

Budget season was upon me at work, and I chose to shutter myself at home for a few weeks. I steeled myself for the inevitable 18 hour days, too much coffee, and an unbelievable amount of stress and worry. And then I heard them.

The high pitch squeaking of late April, had grown to a sort of guttural squawk by mid May. I was home alone with them, with nobody around to tell me that ‘they were just babies’. It was time to tell these shit-heads this was not their home, and that they had to leave immediately.

I unspoiled the hose reel form the side of the house, and dragged it up out onto the deck. I turned the nozzle to the highest pin-point pressure setting, and let them have it through the cracks in the deck. Given the ruckus that followed, I was pretty sure my water cannon approach was pretty helpful. It was however, an oddly unsatisfying experience, for I never could see their faces, or even determine how big the damn brood was. It seemed like there were definitely more than two, but it was hard to tell. It struck me odd that they didn’t run away.

I spent valuable budgeting time wandering the perimeter of the deck. How did they get under there anyway? To the North lay the pool, so that was an impasse. To the south lay the house, and to the east lay the fence line. The bar area was all closed off, and there seemed only one logical entrance, but the hole seemed entirely too small.

That weekend I decided to speak with the experts, before I gave up and called a professional trapper.

There is a local shop that calls themselves The Nature Store, which I had spotted when the family were out for dinner the previous weekend. I remembered seeing a big sign in the window advertising ‘PEST CONTROL SOLUTIONS’ and was sure there would be someone inside who would be able to help me.

I was greeted by a friendly teenager behind the cash, sporting a honkin’ nose ring. She was wearing a white hoodie that said “all my boyfriends end up being Vampires”.

“I have a raccoon problem.”
“Do you now.” she said with bemused interest.
“Yes, and I need to get rid of them, like right now.”
“It won’t be easy” she said.
“I’ll do what it takes.” I said.

Goth-girl reached under the counter, and with a wry smile produced the Sonic Raccoon Neuralizer.

“Been there, done that. They are under the deck, and I cant get to her and the kids.” I replied, sadly.

“Oh, they’re babies then?” she asked.
“Yes, as well as the mother” I said.
“Then you’re screwed.” She said.
“What do you mean!?” I asked, not without a hint of desperation in my voice.

Goth girl went on to explain – in great detail – just how this would play out. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Apparently once they dig in, and the babies aren’t old enough to head out and forage for themselves, there is little one can do to get raccoons to re-evaluate their living arrangements. The mother will stay and suckle the demons during the day, and at night forage around the local garbage cans. She would however, never, ever leave until the babies were big enough to head out on their own. And then, even then, they would probably elect to stay under my deck.

“When did you first hear them?” she asked.
“Late April.” I said.
“Then you have a few more weeks until they are old enough to leave the den” she said.
“My Deck.” I corrected her.

We discussed various tactics. I listened intently. She handed me a large white bottle, a special product that she warned had to be used at only a specific point in the campaign. I paid for the magic powder, and left the store with a glimmer of hope.

Day One

Step one seemed odd. But I vowed to follow Goth-Girl’s instructions to the letter. She indeed seemed like a subject matter expert.
I was instructed to do nothing. That’s correct. Nothing. I was to give then a wide birth for a few days, a week even. Let them get nice and comfy.

Day two

It’s killing me. I sit at my laptop, and I can hear their bloody racket through the goddamn triple glazing. I picture them rolling in their filth, shitting under my beautiful deck, and ache to fire up the water cannon. But I resist.

Day Three through Five

Much more of the above, and I think I’m going to stroke-out from the stress.

Day Six

I am at the lumber yard, buying cedar boards. I am going to spend a sunny Saturday morning extending the skirting on the west and north east sides of the deck, right down to the patio stones. I also have a special treat for these villains, for I intend to put tight mesh chicken -wire behind the cedar, so if they try and dig through it (Goth-Girl’s suggestion) they’ll break a nail (or a tooth) and give up.

The peace and tranquility of the past five days is broken by the sound of my saw and the staccato of the hammer. They seem to not like this one bit.
“How do you like that you little fuckers?” I whisper under the deck, as I slowly close them in, exposing only one entrance and exit. Apparently, these creatures are quite malleable, and can squeeze themselves through impossibly tight openings. Sorry you little shits, just one way in and out for you now.

I carefully cut all the new boards, securing the chicken wire with a staple gun, then firmly attaching the new skirting around the exposed perimeters of the deck. Every now and then, but not regularly, I give them a good couple shots from the water cannon to keep them alert.

Day Seven

I have some one inch masonite board that I found in the garage and I haul out to the side of the house. There is a little gate in the fence, under which Maddy has located their little hidy-hole. She spotted some matted fur that had caught on the wood, and even though the hole looked too small for fat-mamma, it seemed obvious this was their ‘door’. I would be constructing a pre-cut barricade that would extend the entire width of that zone, and I would cover the exterior of that barricade with chicken wire. This way they need not burrow through it, to discover it was Fort Knox.

The barricade element of the campaign was really the last piece of the puzzle, for I needed to wait until they all left at dusk to implement it. I would seize the moment and quickly screw in the barricade before they returned at dawn.

Somewhere in the organized chaos of my garage/work-bench I also found an old transistor radio. I popped in some batteries, and was pleased when I was able to tune in a bad rap music station. Goth girl assured me that Raccoons hate music when they are trying to sleep, and I intended to place the radio right under the pool stairs, above where they seemed to hang out most. This was the first step in what would become a ruthless Shock and Awe campaign.

“Mix it up”. Goth girl explained. “Don’t fall into any kind of pattern. Don’t leave the radio on the same station, turn it off for a while, then turn it on, hit them w the hose, throw some pepper down there too. Let them know this is what they can expect. Drive then out.
Then seal them out.”

Oh, Vampire Girl, I was going to mix it up all right.

Day Eight

This is where this awfulness takes an odd turn. I find myself on the internet whenever I have free time, researching just what makes these varmints tick. Google searches like ‘raccoons really hate it when…” provide me with a wealth of helpful suggestions, but as the internet is prone to do, I was taken down a darker road.

U-tube has hundreds of videos of mother raccoons going crazy defending their young, exhibiting shocking bouts of aggression. I won’t lie – these videos scared the crap out of me. I pictured this smelly hairball lunging at Zack, and I suddenly felt like we were running out of time.

As disturbing as the Raccoons Gone Wild videos were, what really freaked me out was my growing understanding of just how dirty these animals are. I was consumed, and stared at my computer screen in horror. I absorbed page after page of nightmare scenarios, as the raccoons screamed and squirmed under my deck.

Fear. Thy name is Baylisascaris.
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Raccoons, just like dogs and cats, can have roundworms in their intestine. Raccoons however, are infected by an extra-special type of roundworm from a different genus, called Baylisascaris procyonis. The larvae of these worms can infect humans, causing a condition called visceral larval migrans.
In northeastern parts of North America, over 70% of raccoons are infected with Baylisascaris. In Ontario, it has been estimated that only about 20-30% of raccoons are infected, but usually with very high numbers of worms. In either case, younger raccoons are even more likely to be infected. Infected animals may shed millions of parasite eggs in their stool, and the eggs can survive in the soil for months or even years.
If your kid (for instance) is playing near the raccoon shit, or your wife is say, digging in the flower garden, and inadvertently swallows these invisible eggs, they’d hatch in the small intestine and release larvae. Yes happy suburbanites, these 20 centimeter wonders snake through your body and burrow through the wall of the intestine and then they really get to work, causing tissue damage and inflammation. The early signs of illness are pretty vague, and may include things like fatigue and nausea. (I’m suffering from those very symptoms as I write this.)
If the larvae migrate through the brain or spinal cord, a person may develop neurological problems like loss of coordination and muscle control. But these little fuckers have no roadmap, so they migrate through the eyes too, and cause blindness. And the punch-line? Ya can’t even tell if the raccoons have the parasites, and they don’t even seem to notice they are infected! Cure? There is NONE! Have you heard enough of this horror? Yeah, me too. I’ve had enough. Quite enough.
I was ready weeks ago to spend the uber-dollars on a professional trapper, but Goth Girl assured me it would be in vain. The mother may be trapped, but the little ones would never leave. Unable to forage for food themselves, they would die of starvation, then stink through august. I couldn’t pull up the deck and yank them out out, for the boards run in long singular sections under the bar and the stairs. I literally would have to tear down what the contractors erected. Bar, stairs, everything would have to be ripped up, and re-assembled.

There was also the small problem of the new relocation laws. Apparently, you can pay someone to trap your raccoons, but some sort of bullshit protectionist law prevents them from being located farther than a reasonable distance. Yes, you guessed it. Unless your fortress your property, the marauders will be right back where they started. And because they had to hike a good country-mile to get back home, they’ll be especially hungry, and cranky.

Studies have shown that raccoons are able to remember the solution to complex tasks up to three years later. Did I really think a short day trip would deter them? No, I was going to have to do this myself, and it was time to step it up a notch.

At night I started dreaming of variations on a singular theme. Me standing on a bridge over a fast running river, a cloth sack filled with squirming raccoons, a cinder block and some twine.

Day Nine

So there I was, one beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, and I wasn’t lying in my lounger. No, I was sprawled on my stomach on the side of the house, spray hose in hand. N-95 Mask on tight, goggles, and with teeth bared, I was giving these disgusting creatures a well deserved bath. Even craning my neck under the only section still accessible to me, I could only discern sudden movement. Occasionally, the ribbons of sunlight that filtered through the cracks above, were broken by their movements and highlighted their position. I chased them mercilessly with the water cannon. Guided by their screams of protest, I altered the waters trajectory to follow their shrill voices.

“Mudd, really, what the heck are you doing? Did Veronica say you should be doing this?” Maddy asked, both hands on her hips.
(Veronica was Goth Girls real name, and while I knew it, I preferred to call her Goth Girl, exclusively.)
“She told me to drive them nuts, which I am definitely doing!” I said with some annoyance.
“Zachary, it’s time!” I yelled over to my son, who was only too eager to help.

Zach then proceeded to break the world record for Jump Rope Skipping on a Suburban Composite Deck. With unparalleled enthusiasm, Zachary bounced, and with each thwack of the rope against the deck, the raccoons expressed their whiney dissatisfaction. As they raced around under the deck, Zach followed the audible cues with (pardon the awful reference) a shit-eating grin on his face.

After about half an hour of this, Zachary collapsed panting on the lounger. It was time to change the soundtrack.

True to Goth Girl’s plan, I was mindful of the variation. Yesterday the portable radio was tuned into a hip-hop station, and while they seemed not to like that very much, ‘New Country’ elicited genuine shrieks of protest. I chuckled at the irony. Even worm-infested rodents find the insipid watered down country crap unbearable. I left them with their pal Bon Jovi, and headed to the basement to play some real music, and get my mind off this crap.

Day Ten

I was in a bit of a conundrum, in that I couldn’t douse them with anything that may be lethal, for I couldn’t risk having them die under the deck. I was poking through the cleaning products, looking for something that would really annoy them and came across a large bottle of Murphy’s Oil Furniture Polish. I pictured their grey coats made slick and sticky, and figured this would be the ticket.

I was becoming obsessed with worry. I had a very tight window of opportunity to work with. Given their affinity for movement after dark, I could miss the chance to board up their exit when they headed to the forest to forage. I was still unsure as to if the babies were actually able to head out on their own, but all this ambiguity was going to affect the outcome of the campaign. I needed proper surveillance.

When Zach was little, and when our friends had kids equally small, we would hook up a wireless internet camera in the basement that overlooked the play area. While not intended as any sort of spy-cam, it gave our adult guests a reason to stay upstairs with the adults, and leave the kids to themselves. Occasionally a parent would peer at the laptop in the kitchen, and yell – “Gavin! Zach! Get off the air hockey table right now!!” The kids would descend immediately, look around in amazement, and move on to a less destructive activity. This wireless camera that would play a crucial role in the campaign.

I installed the camera under the deck, at the only entrance and exit point. I hooked up a spotlight so I could illuminate the zone, and then setup the laptop in the family room where I could easily monitor if they came and went. And so, Koon-Kam was born. Broadcasting live from Pickering 24-7. Maddy was beginning to think I may have had some sort of breakdown.

I spent the better part of the afternoon ‘mixing it up’ between music, stretches of peace, the water cannon, some cayenne pepper sprays, and Zachary’s spontaneous jump-rope competitions.

I also deployed the Mineral oil. I got lucky, in that at a specific time of the day, with the sun is just at the right angle, I was able to pinpoint their location. (although the flies that would hover above them was certainly a good clue). Their disgusting coats are a grey-white, and when the sun shone through the slats, I was easily able to spot them. And down the slimy oil concoction went, right on top of them.

By now their screams seemed to have devolved into a sort of animal version of ‘Oh man, this really sucks.’ I wouldn’t say they had become used to the barrage, but they certainly sounded like they were growing weary of it, which was exactly what I was trying to accomplish.

Hose...jump rope Zach!...New Country…pepper…Hose…Jump rope Zach!...quiet time…pepper…hose…hip-hop…Murphy’s Oil..

I kept this up for a few hours as it approached dusk, and then a secret weapon arrived.

I cant say for sure if this was the last straw. I cant be positive that our neighbour’s six year old son Jake was indeed the catalyst that changed the outcome of this, but it sure seemed to me like he did.

Jake and Zach are buddies, and are often seen solving the world’s problems together. They both have pools, so you can track their movement by the trail of wet towels and strewn Super Soaker weaponry. Jake, apparently, had the answer.

If you havent already, its time to check out a short video I posted titled ‘Jake’ in the Video Section of Facebook. It explains what it is he did that sent these abominations screaming for the forest.

Perhaps the raccoon babies were trying to tell Jake something. Perhaps something like… “Help Us! The tall bastard with the hose and the oil is trying to kill us!”
Perhaps Jake really can communicate with wildlife, and his reciprocal yelps and chirps were sending the raccoons a message: If they chose to stay, they were doomed to a summer of Bon Jovi and prison-shower bathing rituals.

After The Racoon Whisperer's odd little discussion with our uninvited friends, Jake headed back across the street to his family, and Maddy, Zack and I started preparing dinner as the sun went down. We ate as the raccoon screeching continued, and I could just make out the muted lyrics coming from the portable radio under the deck…and a wry smile crossed my tense face..

….Mister catch me if you can
Im going down in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
Im going down in a blaze of glory….

Just before the sun slipped below the horizon, I spotted fat mama on the Koon-Kam. I almost missed it. She came out from the darkness, and was suddenly illuminated by the big spotlight. She looked to the left, and then to the right, and then disappeared back into the shadows. A few moments later she emerged slowly with stinky offspring number one in her mouth. I was shocked that something so small, could have made such a racket.

“Its SHOWTIME!” I yelled to Maddy.
“Man the front window, tell me when you see her! She has the baby! She has the baby!”

Maddy ran to the window, and confirmed that fat mama had indeed rounded the corner, and was heading across the court to the nearby woods. Zachary came flying down the stairs, determined to partake in the proceedings. He was, after all, in this from the start, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him to get back to bed. He snuggled in next to me at the laptop to watch the raccoon return for the rest of her family.

An agonizing 20 minutes passed. Was she coming back soon? Would I be stuck watching this damn camera feed until dawn? How many times could Zack ask “Where is the mama raccoon Daddy?”

Then suddenly there she was, or at least the back ass end of her, for she had to return past the camera, opposite to its orientation. I thought Zack was going to jump out of his skin he was so excited, but not as excited as I was.

And just like before, she first checked out her get-away route, then grabbed smelly offspring number two, and headed down the path between the houses, back over to the forest.

“Holy crap, this is gonna work!” I yelled out to Maddy up at the lookout.
“Zack! You man the Koon-Kam, I’m going to ready the barricade!” I yelled, as I flew out to the garage to retrieve the tools.

“OK DADDY!” Zack screamed, puffing with pride, with the understanding that he was an integral part of this operation.

“She just rounded the corner Mudd! You got about 20 minutes to get it all prepared!” Maddy yelled from the living room.
I got my pre-cut barricade and drill, and placed them o the deck near the gate opening.

We stared at the laptop, and stared. Nineteen minutes later, right on cue, mama returned to grab the last baby raccoon. She paused for just a moment to look right into the camera, and cocked her head slightly, almost as if giving pause before leaving the warzone. All three of us sat jammed into the loveseat staring into the defiant eyes looking out at us from the laptop. I became aware that I may have developed some sort of involuntary twitch in my left eye. None of us were breathing. And then, as silently as she entered our lives, she left for the last time.

I don’t think she even made it to the other side of the court before my drill drove the woodscrews into the chicken-wire covered masonite barricade. I glanced over my shoulder a few times though, convinced the thing would be flying at me with teeth bared. But she never looked back. That’s it. It was over. Done.

I slumped down on the steps, wiping the sweat from my forehead, bathed in the white glow of the spotlight. Was it really over? Would they somehow find their way back in? Had I been thorough enough? Holy shit! What if there was more than three babies?

I ran back around the house and out onto the deck, fired up the hose and started randomly spraying into the cracks. I turned off the water and listened…I slowly crept around…was that a faint squeak? Yes it was! There it is again! Damn it, I missed one. I felt like crying.

I eventually realized my wet slippers were doing the squeaking as I crept about. I laughed a crazy nervous laugh of relief that had Maddy frowning with worry at the patio door.

Oblivious to the brutal campaign I had waged, were my slacker neighbour’s, kicking-back in their dilapidated shed. I could smell the familiar sweet smell of marijuana wafting over the back fence. I said a small prayer, hoping the baby raccoons would thrive in the forest, eat plenty of other peoples garbage, and move into that piece of shit ganja-shack. I hoped they would have a nice big fat litter, and that the kids would grow up to have their mom’s tenacity.


The next morning I pulled out the special white plastic container I had purchased from Goth Girl, almost three weeks ago. It seemed as if someone has simply printed the words “Coyote Urine” and taped it over the original packaging. Once I carefully removed the tape, the original product label was clearly visible – “Deer-be-Gone”.

I chuckled aloud, thinking about the brilliance behind the Nature Store’s re-branding attempts. I have to admit, Coyote Pee sounds a lot more menacing (and more to the point) than Deer-be-Gone.

I reached into my pocket, and clicked the button on the remote control. I heard the familiar comforting chirp of the Raccoon Neuralizer, and I knew I would finally sleep well that night.

With a glass of scotch in my hand, I carefully sprinkled the granulated piss of the raccoon’s natural predator around the perimeter of my deck. I was suddenly struck by the injustice of it all.

I will honestly concede that if could have simply shot all three of these intruders early on in the campaign, I would have. I admit it.

I also know that my family and I, our home, our pool, and our deck are in fact, the real invaders.