When my wife and I first lived together, we rented a century old farm house just north of the city.. It was a wonderfully exciting house, filled with creaks and moans, and squeaks and bangs. There was a sudden staircase, leading from the living room to the 2nd floor, and a dumbwaiter that was still functional. . It was old, and, at times, seemed quite eerie. After a while, we got used to the noises, and accepted the creaking, banging, and moaning as a part of our lives.
One night, my wife was woken by a noise she claimed that she had not heard before. She woke me, and we sat listening to what can best be described as 2 pieces of wood being banged togethers. We suspected that someone had broken in. I told my wife to call the police.
When the police arrived, they too heard someone moving around. They believed it was coming from the basement. We all stood in the kitchen, listening intently to the would be thieves, waiting for the police to spring into action.
Finally, it was time. The 2 officers pulled their guns and asked where the basement door was. I led them to it. “Okay”, one of them said, “you lead the way. We’ll be right behind you.” You’re kidding, I thought. What the hell am I doing leading the charge up San Juan Hill? I looked at my wife in disbelief. “Come on. Let’s go”, he urged. I opened the basement door, and headed down the stairs. Behind me, the 2 police officers had their guns drawn, and we’re using their flashlights to illuminate the darkened cellar. “You’re not going to shoot me in the back”, I said.
“I hope not”, one of them replied.
I moved down the stairs as stealthily as my trembling legs wold permit, and was amazed at just how creepy this basement was in the dark. In tje dead of night. The wooden rafters seemed almost alive in the shadows. I felt like a character out of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’, skulking around the Radley house, terrified to find Boo. The noises were much louder now, and the police, still behind me, were moving their flashlights around, looking for any sign of an intruder. We reached the bottom of the stairs, and the noise seemed to be coming from the log beams that ran across the ceiling. Their flashlights were focused above us now, and there, partially hidden behind a box nestled in the rafters, they saw something. “It’s a raccoon”, one of them shouted. I looked up, and there was the biggest raccoon I had ever seen.
“Stay back”, one or the officers remarked, “she’s pregnant. “They’re when they’re pregnant.”
“Can you get it out?” I asked.
“Ah, no.”, He answered. “She’s likely to rip your face off”
Well, can you shoot it?”
I was informed that they could not shoot it. The best that I could do was to call animal control in the morning. They would come out, and humanely removed the mutation. In the meanwhile, I was advised to stay far away from this animal. It could be rabid.
They put their guns away and we went upstairs. I thanked them for not shooting me in the back, and they departed, leaving me, and my wife, with one giant, potentially rabid rodent. My wife and I stayed awake all night, making sure the killer raccoon from hell did not make it upstairs to shred our faces. Animal control came in the morning and trapped the masked bastard, ending one scary night in paradise.