Dear friends,
Yesterday, we tore down the shed in our backyard.
It was quite rotten and had a history of attracting animals. During the pandemic, we discovered three baby squirrels there, nesting in a chewed up lawn chair cushion near the body of their deceased matriarch. This time, we were prepared to encounter the small family of raccoons that had infested our trashy old outbuilding over the winter.
That’s a harsh word, infestation, considering how, as you know, we have a close relationship with the anthropomorphic raccoon population down by the Thames. They wear tartan vests, smoke pipes on occasion, and are like a sophisticated gang of Victorian pickpockets demanding our respect and weekly alms. You may remember a missive from years past where we wrote to you about the bookselling raccoon down on the flats, who provides us with some of our most valuable material. So, as we are a part of their ecosystem, we approached the shed situation gently, our dog Cooper’s pathetic aggression notwithstanding.
(Her barks are best described as wan).
It took a small miracle to get the mama raccoon out. Unlike our river friends, there was no waistcoat or pipe to be found. This raccoon was unknown to us, and very single-minded about her domicile. Apart from her regularly pilfering the contents of our green bin, we hadn’t encountered her much, but we knew she was there. Neighbours on both sides had courteously texted us:
ANNA: Hey Vanessa, I just wanted to let you know that I think there’s a family of raccoons living in your shed. One of them was just wandering around in our backyard.
VANESSA: Thanks Anna! We’ll be out there next week. We have to tear down that old shed anyway.
ANNA: Yeah, I think that thing’s been there since I was a little girl [the shed, not the raccoon].
Anna grew up in the house next door, and lives there again now, where she takes care of her aging father. She knows everything about our street, and if she says that shed is over fifty years old, it’s probably over fifty years old. We knew we had a job to do. First, we had to get mama raccoon to move to new digs.
The process began slowly, as we started “accidentally” hitting the shed walls each day to let her know things had begun to change. Think “Moving Day” in Mrs. Brisby and the Rats of NIHM, but with more goodwill. Then we left the shed door open, letting in the light, and moved a few things around to sound the alarm. We even sent our youngest boy out to spread a little scent around the sides. Time to go, raccoon! Nothing happened though. She was determined to stay.
So yesterday, with Lenny safely indoors with her brother, and Cooper whining anxiously at the back window, we entered the old, crusty, semi-abandoned shed. It was dark, untouched over winter, filled with mouse-chewed lawn chairs and cobweb-encrusted leftover tiles from our bathroom floor. A rustle in the corner behind the lawn mower told us we were not alone. Jason, the brave soul, calm and non-aggressive, a picture of contemporary and stalwart masculinity, greeted the masked face peeking up from behind an old jerry can.
“Why, hello there.”
The frightened mother felt trapped, protecting her babies. Who was this awesome spectre of manhood entering her cave? Who was this strapping human, but another in a series of challenges and obstacles to overcome? She was sure she could conquer him, just like that dumb green bin. Humans are idiots, she thought, throwing away all that food. She could take him, and in due course, protect her little ones.
“It’s moving day little friend.”
His reassuringly deep and brawny voice calmed everyone who heard it. The mama raccoon felt her resolve diminish under his confident gaze. Then, with the skill only a true country boy could possess, he crow-barred open the back corner of a water-logged wall just enough to aid in her escape. Her pointed face peeked out, and she looked up at him as if for guidance.
“There you go.”
She retreated back into the shadows, refusing to leave, so Jason ducked again into her dim, rotting hideaway. They locked eyes. He pointed at her and then pointed to the hole he had made. There was an understanding between species (we kid you not), and the mama raccoon reluctantly lifted her babies one-by-one, and took them out the back door. The whole process lasted about fifteen minutes. Each time she entered, she looked back up at him, entreating him with her sad black eyes, but he calmly pointed again at the hole in the back wall.
“Moving day,” he repeated.
On her final trip, she paused, turned around and said in a surprisingly tender voice, “There’s a garage at the back of the Wilson’s yard that’s a crap hole. I’m going there.”
“We don’t like the Wilson’s anyway,” Jason replied. (And in truth, they do play a lot of cornhole while listening to EDM very loudly in good weather). “Godspeed.”
Everyone remained safe and sound. Our shed was decimated by our steady hands within the hour. It really was a piece of shit, so it didn’t take much, honestly. Our oldest son yanked the whole thing askew with one hard pull. Jason stepped on a nail. It wasn’t a big deal; he barely flinched.
But secretly, Jason is harbouring a hope that the mama raccoon will come back with her babies over the summer, just to say hello. As long as she only knocks over the Wilson’s green bin, and not ours, all will be well in Blackfriars.
Much love,
Jason & Vanessa
