It started with a rabid looking raccoon. He had been spotted at homes around the neighborhood during Easter weekend. First, I found him in my trashcan (yes, I screamed at the top of my lungs and slammed the lid shut). Then, my neighbor found him sleeping on her front doorstep. This raccoon was slow to move and frankly, acted like he was intoxicated. When another neighbor saw him crossing her lawn in broad daylight after school, she got a good enough look to suspect rabies and called animal control. They told her it would be awhile before the only officer on their team who was equipped to “handle the situation” would be out. We were to track the raccoon in the meantime.
Imagine trying to quarantine five boys and four girls under such exciting circumstances. My neighbor and I tried everything – the real explanation (it’s a sick raccoon and could make you sick if you don’t go inside right now), bribes (you can order a movie from Apple TV), threats (you will lose playtime tomorrow). Nothing would deter the boys from the scene. Every time we turned around, they’d come sneaking back with binoculars in tow. Finally we let them join us but formed a barricade they could not cross. This soon attracted the girls who missed their brothers. Thankfully, the raccoon made his way into my neighbor’s backyard which was obstructed from our view.
When the officer arrived on the scene, he was surprised by the posse that had formed. As he got out his rifle and walked around back, the boys begged to follow him. We told them no way. “But I’m with the FBI,” my son’s friend protested, ripping open his jacket to reveal a t-shirt that read, “FBI Agent.” “Sorry, but a trip to the Spy Museum in Washington D.C. does not make you an agent,” I told him. The boys whined until the shots started. It sounded like a firework display, which preoccupied them with counting the shots. There were 10 in total. I guess the officer had to ensure the raccoon wouldn’t struggle when he picked him up.
After a tour of the crime scene and autographs from the officer, the boys were satisfied enough to head home for the night. At bathtime, my son asked if he had to wash the hand that had been autographed by the officer. “That’s disgusting. Of course you have to wash your hand,” my daughter said, adding, “It’s not like he’s a celebrity.”
“Nope,” my son replied, “He’s a hero.”
The autograph session
The raccoon giving me the stare-down after he escaped from the trash can
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