The Raccoon

I was sitting here at the computer this morning, and looked out the window to find a big raccoon lurking right outside the house. I had a flashback to last year's raccoon episode, and hoped I wouldn't have to replay that scene.

Last year, there was a terrible problem with sick raccoons everywhere in the area. They all had distemper, and were in places you wouldn't expect them to be. I had two show up in the yard at two different times acting very strangely. Neither time turned out to be good for the raccoon, nor me.

It was late in the evening one day last Fall, and the weather wasn't too different from today. It was very windy, and snowing so hard you could hardly see. The dog was barking like crazy outside, pulling at the end of her chain, trying to get loose. I looked out back by the willow tree and saw something shiny at the base of the tree. I didn't remember leaving anything out there, so, I got a flashlight, stuck it in the window, and pointed it out that direction. There was a raccoon lying at the base of the tree, and it's eyes were what I was seeing. It wasn't moving, so I thought it was dead. Periodically, I would shine the light out that way, to see if it had moved, and there it still was, unchanged. I thought I saw it's eyes blink a couple of times, but blamed it on the snow, thinking the snow flakes were obstructing it's eyes, and not the raccoon.I decided to wait until morning, when hopefully, the weather was better to go out and bury it.

When it got light out, I went out to the tree, horrified to find that the raccoon was STILL ALIVE. It was paralyzed or something, and didn't respond to me standing over it, or even a poke with a stick. I had to do something I just dread. I had to shoot it, but first I decided to get everything prepared. The shovel and wheelbarrow came out of the shed. I went down the lane a ways, dug a hole, rolled the wheelbarrow over to the raccoon, scooped it up and rolled it out and dumped it in the hole. I would then get the shotgun, shoot it, and cover it up. That was the plan.

I put one shell in the shotgun, thinking one shot at practically point blank would quickly dispatch it, and walked out to the hole. I held the gun up, cried, put it down. I held it up, aimed, cried some more, put it down. Once again, I aimed, shut my eyes, squeezed the trigger, and POP. I looked...I MISSED THE DANG RACCOON. I shot it's leg. I cried some more, running up to the house for another shell, and ran back. I aimed again, sobbing, shot, and...MISSED AGAIN! I can't tell you how upset I was by then. Wailing back to the house, I got my last shell that I had, as I just don't keep that stuff around, only for times such as these. (The memory of Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird shooting the rabid dog always had me have at least one shell and that gun on hand.) Finally, after I wiped my tears, and composed myself the best that I could, I got a shot off that took care of that poor raccoon.

I hate having to put an animal out of it's misery, and was so thankful that this raccoon, was so far gone, it didn't care. And as much as I would like to believe, I am not nearly as good of a shot as Atticus Finch.