“The upper verandah where the Idiot sprays water at the squirrels.”
Thanks, Touchwit. That’s all I need – to wake up in the morning and go out on the balcony to greet the day. The first thing I see is a pile of raccoon scat. The fact that it is exquisitely tidy only adds to the offense.
“That’s a good place, except Dad might see us,” Clutch said.
“Do you think he recognized our scents?” Bandit asked.
Slypaws replied. “I don’t know. There’s no clue in our scents to separate us from the other raccoons in the clan. Now that it’s Spring, we’re eating the same food as the others. And I doubt if the Creep will be interested in checking out this house. He’s too heavy for the cedars anyway, and if he does make it onto the roof I’ll hold my ground at the top of the chimney.”
“We’ll need to be quiet though,” Bandit said. “Which means no more drinking the leftovers in the Blue Boxes.”
The remark was directed at Clutch and Touchwit. I hoped they didn’t hear me laughing. It appeared they had discovered alcohol that night Touchwit had come home singing and Clutch had fallen through the chimney. Raccoons love anything that has sugar in it. Sugar is a fatal weakness.
Touchwit seemed uncharacteristically silent. She wouldn’t be embarrassed at drinking wine and beer for the first time – she was bursting to be a grown-up.
“Your father is only the face of the problem. The problem itself is political economy.” Slypaws’s voice diminished to a whisper. I had to press the disc of the stethoscope hard against the wall to hear her elaboration. “Look, kids. We’ve learned some things from our reconnaissance. Precarious things. There are pressures on the River. More raccoons want to settle here. The Clan Fathers can’t protect their territories individually against all the newcomers. They can’t look after the scattered hunting grounds of their respective families. They are considering that they need to unite and serve under a Supreme Male in order to protect the whole clan territory. Meatbreath is promoting himself as the overall leader.”
“Our Dad!” I heard awe in Clutch’s voice.
“Help! It’s every Cub for himself!” Bandit said.
I’m not sure from these sentiments if the young family understood politics, but I do. First of all, there is no universal model for the social organization of raccoons. They organize themselves variously depending on the landscape and the species. But in the Eastern Woodlands, a common model is a network of clan families dominated by the senior males. These family heads hang out together like oligarchs, boasting about the number of cubs they’ve sired and gossiping about the competing raccoons in the adjacent territories. As males sharing a common clan responsibility, they are relaxed most of the year about crossing into each other’s family hunting grounds. Two or more families can co-habit the same hunting ground, with the one father visiting his various wives and children. There are other kinds of social organization, but this versatile model prevailed on the River. Now in the face of migrating raccoons, the breeding males, the Clan Fathers, were yielding up their paternal roles in exchange for the security offered by the strongest male, Meatbreath. And this centralizing of power was occurring at the height of the mating season, which made the autocracy all the more intense.
“This is going to mess up all the balances in the hunting grounds. They depend on local knowledge and nearby fathers. What are we going to do?” Touchwit put the question to her whole family.
“Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t we stop getting drunk and instead stand up for ourselves? The only thing an alpha male understands is brute force.”
“Go right ahead, Bandit. Me? – I’m going to consult our Customs. They will tell us what to do.”
“Clutch, what’s the time-honoured Custom for negotiating with a power nozzle?” Bandit asked. The sarcasm was beginning to mount.
“I don’t know, but there’s a Custom for every situation so there must be one for dealing with a raccoon who’s become a bully. I’m sure the problem has happened before.”
Silence. The children are turning to their mother for an answer. But Slypaws is saying nothing.
“If we can’t fight, we have to turn tail and flee. That’s the best Custom I know,” Bandit said eventually.
“That’s because it’s the only one you know,” Touchwit said.
“Where are we going to flee to?” Clutch asked.
“We can go to Aunt Pawsense’s pond.”
“Sure, that’s going to work. Four more mouths for her to feed. And she’s already got plans for inviting grown-up raccoons to defend her pond. All they have to do in return is marry her daughters.”
Pause. Again no reply from the mother. Is she holding something back from the debate or is she really out of options? Touchwit broke the silence: “Clutch, it seems there is no Custom to meet this particular dilemma.”
“There must be. Nothing can happen without a Custom directing it.”
“Bandy, it seems you can’t fight or flee.”
“I can too!”
“You’ll meet a loathsome, grotesque end.”
“Perhaps our superior sister has the solution in her paws. If it’s not Custom, what is it? Has she invented a new Custom?”
“A person can’t invent a Custom. Customs invent themselves.”
“Meatbreath has.”
“This is getting nowhere.”
Finally, the voice of Slypaws: hesitant, thoughtful, calm: “What raccoons usually do at this time of year is go out and discover their future dens.”
This suggestion provoked three busy silences. The children were considering the implications of starting a new life on their own. They hadn’t thought of this eventuality and they were shocked. Finally, they all spoke at once.
“Mom, are you abdicating and retiring to the city?”
“Do you want us to scatter?”
“Will we ever see each other again?”
“No, dear ones. I don’t mean that we should split up as an emergency measure. Meatbreath can track us down one-by-one anytime he feels like it. I’m only saying that if you require a Custom in order to know what to do, the Custom at this time of the year is for cubs to determine where they are going to forage and maybe start families of their own. I should have given you a lesson on dens and showed you some examples. But alas, I am a neglectful Mom. Unlike my sister Pawsense.”
“You’re a wonderful Mom,” her first son replied. “Why can’t we stay here forever with you in this chimney?”
“Because your friends will hang out at all hours and party on the roof top.”
