“This story is dumb,” Bandit said. “We happen to know Raccoons are born because the mom lets herself get jumped.”
Mother Slypaws sounded flustered. Not even the width of my study wall could muffle her embarrassment. “One has to recount the High Stories in their accustomed order before studying their practical applications.”
“I think Mom got jumped around Midsummer,” Bandit said.
Mistress Slypaws examined her tail. It was a bushy tail once. Now, after a winter in this soot-lined hole, it hung limp and bedraggled. “If you must know, he took advantage of the fact that the love season is askew in the general rhythms of things. He caught me at the end of a limb and made me great with cub. It was either that or a thirty foot drop into the rhododendrons.” Slypaws looked up grimly. “And you can bet the rings on your tails I’ll never get caught on a limb again … Ever.”
“Way to go, Mom!”
“Instead, I shall go to the fabled city under the southern sky that is called Raccoonopolis, where the Idiots have invented a green bin that can be popped in nine seconds.”
“Let’s all go.”
Touchwit had been quiet. She was going to say something crucial.
“That’s why you don’t want us to go out tonight,” she said. “You’re afraid of getting jumped.”
“I’m not thinking only of myself, dear.”
“I can look after myself.”
“Good luck!”
Again, the elder brother filled the silence with earnestness. “Who is our father then, if he isn’t the Great Raccoon Ancestor?”
“You will meet him in good time. When you’re big enough to hold your place at the end of a tree limb against a distempered, hormonal mass of raging stupidity. Until that night, you shall remain scarce in our chimney.”
“But, what’s his name?” Clutch insisted. “At least, tell us his name.”
“It doesn’t matter what his name is. He’s a jerk.”
“Mom, we need to know his name. He’s our father.”
“Your father’s name is … Meatbreath.”
“Our Dad’s name is Meatbreath. No way!”
At this, I tactfully withdrew my stethoscope from the wall. One hot Spring night, there was going to be a terrific confrontation, and it was hard to guess which of the cubs was going to be the one who would reckon with their father.
3
The first warm night of Spring. I expect the raccoons behind my office wall will venture out. Sure enough, a discreet scratching ascends the interior of the disused chimney. Probably the mother going up to check the weather. After a while, the scratching noise descends. I press my stethoscope to the wall so I can hear her report:
“A light breeze is blowing from where the Sun went into his burrow. The Ancestor is high in the southern sky. His light will allow us to see the silent vehicles before they come upon us. Once, they used to be noisy, which gave us a warning.”
“Eeeuuw!”
The cubs were remembering the late Uncle Wily. An amiable, harmless bachelor, he used to entertain them by recounting with glee all the threats he had outwitted. Then one wet winter night he was flattened by an electric car. It caught him while he was telling a yarn to the cubs by the roadside. One minute, he was a garrulous ball of fur; the next, he was staring at them from the pavement, both eyes on one side of his face like a flatfish and his teeth still grinning in mid-story.
“Since then,” Mother Slypaws said, “we have found that going around the neighbourhood from house to house and unplugging the vehicles diminishes the threat.”
“We shall continue to unplug vehicles in remembrance of Uncle Wily,” the elder brother declared.
Mistress Slypaws shook off the proposal. Sometimes the solemnity of her eldest son could be irritating. “Threats: Brief Review,” she announced. “After vehicles, what’s the number one threat?”
“Our Dad,” Bandit said.
“Get real. He’s hanging with the Dudes,” sister Touchwit said. “They’ve formed a men’s club. To protect their common territory, which means us, from other males.”
“We shall speak of him last,” Slypaws said, “since he is connected with the subject of latrines. Other threats. Think of something else that is silent.”
“Owls. The ones that have horns like the young moon. They see and hear great distances, and glide silently to their prey.”
“Very good, Bandit. You must stay close to me at all times. That way we shall present an indistinct mass to an attacker. What else?”
“Droolers,” Touchwit said.
“And what do we know about Droolers?”
Clutch put his hand up to answer: “They are of two kinds. First, there are the ones that are walked by the Primates, who restrain them by means of leashes. Second, there are the ones who run free and don’t know quite who they are, being part dog, part wolf.”
“And by what sound do we know they are approaching?” Mother Slypaws’s street-proofing lessons had the quality of a catechism.
“We will hear them panting. Whereupon we scurry to the nearest tree.”
“Very good!”
Clutch had a further point to make about Droolers: “They don’t think for themselves like us. They think as a pack. That’s what makes them act superior.”
