“His scent empties the forest.”
“Clutch, dear. Don’t you think that’s a little uncivil?”
“Uncivil? Aunt Pawsense married him so she can build a dynasty. She’ll marry off her daughters to his relatives, and they’ll all move up here and protect her territory. Suddenly you have an Empire. It’ll be called New Raccoonopolis. Not exactly living close to Nature in the Old Ways!”
“Do consider what you mean by the Old Ways? They’re not as wild and pure as you think. Raccoons have lived beside Primates for as long as anyone can remember.”
“Actually, I think Uncle Smartwhisker is cool,” Bandit said. “He cares about his family, even though he can’t remember their names.”
“As for us, we have our River,” Slypaws said. “There’s always something juicy in a river. My sister only has a pond. If she tries to steal an egg, she gets swarmed by Red-winged Blackbirds. We have acorns and nuts and grapes in our little forest, and chestnuts to dig out of the ground where the Squirrels bury them, and peanuts and black oil sunflower seeds which the Idiot gives to the Chickadees, who jam them in the tree bark for storage.”
I thought that Mother Slypaws might be feeling inferior to her older sister in the eyes of her cubs. Hadn’t she chosen a safe habitat for her little family?
“That’s how you got us through the winter! Nuts and seeds. Food for Squirrels and Birds,” Clutch said. “You’ve turned us into vegans.”
“Plus pizza,” Bandit said.
“I wonder what the neighbourhood Primates have been eating this week?” Touchwit bringing the discussion back into focus. There is the sound of noses sniffing.
“You’ll find out when you tip the bins.”
Slypaws was ensuring that her cubs used their initiative. After the Summer Solstice, they’d have to survive on their own instead of relying on her. In these parts, the Summer Solstice is when mothers take their cubs out to survey future dens.
“Give us a clue.”
“Alright. The Primate two houses away eats food delivered in boxes. That’s where I got the pizza for you during the Winter. Further up the street there’s a vegan whose bin isn’t worth the effort. You won’t find fish or flesh or fowl in her bin. Not even eggs. Vegans are becoming numerous.”
“What’s wrong with eating meat and fish and birds?” Clutch asked.
“They’re living creatures. Some humans think that it’s wrong to kill a living creature just so that you can eat its body.”
“Plants are living creatures. We kill them and eat their bodies,” Bandit said.
“True,” Slypaws said. “When you eat a crabapple, you’re eating one of the tree’s ovaries.”
“I see why vegans won’t eat certain things,” Touchwit said. “But I don’t understand why they won’t eat creatures who aren’t going to live a long time anyway. Like Crayfish or Clams.”
Slypaws’s reply was delicate: “I don’t know. Maybe some eat Clams, but never Crayfish. Worms, but never Frogs.”
“I get it!” Clutch exclaimed. “Vegans won’t eat creatures who have faces.”
“Or anything belonging to a creature with a face. Bees have faces, so vegans won’t eat honey. And vegans won’t even use the skin or fur of a living creature. They consider it theft.”
“What if vegetables had faces?” Touchwit mused.
“So, what’s left for us to eat when we pop a lid?” Bandit asked, trying to clear his head of his sister’s whimsy.
“These days, we have to be selective about our food choices. As Primates evolve, so Raccoons evolve,” Slypaws said, quoting a proverb.
“That means we have to sniff out the choice bits and pull them out of the bags like Skunks,” Touchwit said. She didn’t make this comparison with scorn. Skunks, in spite of their ability to send an attacker reeling with their spray, are very hygienic animals.
“We don’t have time for that,” Clutch said. “After we pop a lid, we strew the contents of the container all over the garden and especially the front path. All the better to eat selectively in our own spaces without getting on top of each other. Also, it leaves a statement.”
“That’s our mob!” Bandit said.
“But how will we know what’s good for us to eat today?” Touchwit asked.
“Experiment. Whatever doesn’t make you retch will make you stronger. And don’t guzzle the dregs of spirit juice from the empty bottles in the open bins. It’s not good for raccoons.”
At that remark, they began their sortie. For creatures who are secretive, the mess they were about to make would be a flagrant manifesto, a vivid claim that they owned the neighbourhood. I stayed up late. I usually do. I’m a writer and my profession is nocturnal. That’s why I feel I have a special bond with the Procyon species and am able to understand them. I would guard the fort until they returned.
Return? Absolutely! They came home like they were returning from a party, and one of them missed his footing and dropped straight down the chimney well to the bottom and passed out. Untranslatable growling up and down the chimney. But at the open top, singing. One of them was singing. It was Touchwit singing a moist lullaby to the stars.
I don’t understand raccoons at all.
9
Another outburst in the chimney! Brimstone pits and hell! These snarling explosions of petulance are becoming more frequent now that the sun is hitting the chimney top.
“Mom, tell Witless to stop pulling hairs out of my tail.”
“I need them for my Making.”
“Get them from your own tail.”
“That wouldn’t be right. The material has to come from something other than the maker.”
“Your material is taking up all the space in the den. Especially the grapevines.”
