“They have a saying,” Bandit said: “Families that prey together, stay together.”
“Yes, well we have a better saying,” Slypaws said: “Families that scrounge together, lounge together.”
This seemed to put the threat of coyotes into perspective. “They are venturing into the city more and more,” Slypaws told her children, “but when they do they keep to the paths which have been made for walking and riding vehicles with two wheels. Foxes, which you haven’t mentioned, also use these paths, but you are now so big you needn’t fear them. Any other threats you can think of?” Slypaws offered a hint. “It is near the River.”
Bandit knew the answer: “Fishers, otherwise known as Weasels. They eat everything in sight and they attack from behind. They are said to carry off raccoon cubs.”
“Good! Though Fishers live north in the great forests. You are more likely to see their smaller cousins which are called Mink and are harmless to ones your size. But you have neglected the largest threat of all. I shall put it in a riddle:
What is largest of all because it is smallest of all,
and something that every Raccoon overlooks?
“A nose. A Raccoon overlooks his nose,” Clutch said.
“No,” Bandit said. “It is a flea.”
“I know,” Touchwit said. “It is a virus.”
Of course, they knew that! They knew that there is a disease that makes raccoons foam at the mouth; another that makes them drool. Distemper. Rabies.
“Therefore, we shall keep our distance from animals whose behaviour is erratic. On which note, we come to the subject of your father. So far, he has been unable to smell our whereabouts. That is because I chose this chimney to hide in. It confines our scent and whatever scent it releases is dispersed high in the air, and so cannot be traced to its source.”
“What do we do if we meet him?” Bandit asked.
“Fathers have been known to destroy cubs sired by another father. They do not harm their own children. But now Spring is here and it is constantly on their minds to make more cubs, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll deal with the slimeball,” Touchwit said.
“It is a brave daughter who goes nose-to-nose with her own father. But if he doesn’t mate with you, he’ll force you off the limb so that you go splat and end up resembling a pizza like Uncle Wily.” Slypaws didn’t know whether to be proud of her daughter or afraid of her. “Anyway, we’ll only be out for a short time. Just long enough to find out where the community latrine is.”
This was interesting. Raccoons are private animals, and they establish a latrine for the immediate family. It is usually hidden so that it doesn’t give away their location. But they may sometimes use a neighbourhood latrine, which is more distant from their dens. This is where the various mothers of the community meet to exchange news while their cubs tussle. But why was the father of these chimney cubs connected with a latrine?
“Your father will check the latrine periodically,” Slypaws said, as if reading my mind. “He wants to determine how his families are faring. How many cubs he’s sired. What food they’re eating, and whether they have worms in their tummies. Other fathers in his club will do the same for their families. We shall find out from my sister where these various fathers are, and if there are any other threats.”
It seemed the father was more a threat to his children’s peace of mind than to their bodies, though the precocious daughter soon coming into her maturity had something to fear. It was significant that the cubs never mentioned their father’s name.
Behind their wall in my omniscience, I silently mouthed the forbidden name as the raccoons ventured out to discover the facts about their world. The chief fact was Meatbreath.
4
Bustling behind my wall – the sound of three excited kids getting ready for a family outing. It is a soft Spring night, and a breeze from the south brings news of a distant sea.
To exit their den, the raccoons will need to climb the interior of the chimney to where it projects four feet above the roof. Then they have to clamber down the exterior brickwork of the chimney to the roof, then down a steep slope to the eavestrough. The slope is so steep that roofers shake their heads grimly and smoke a cigarette before they set up their ladders. But the raccoons scramble along the roof easily.
You may be asking: how did the raccoons get into the chimney in the first place? Chimneys have a chimney pot, usually made of aluminum nowadays. Its purpose is to protect against rain, but the roofers told me the covering also deters birds from dropping things into the hole. Apparently, a cavity in a high place invites the idea of a nest, and birds will instinctively deposit twigs and leaves into the empty space. But did the chimney pot deter the raccoons? Not at all. They simply extracted its four screws and hurled the object 36 feet down into the garden.
What route will these clever animals take tonight? They can either leave the roof by means of the thicket of cedars beside my front door, or they can descend down the one slender cedar that I’ve let grow just outside my bedroom window at the back so I can watch birds close up. Descent at the front is easy because what was once a nicely trimmed cedar hedge now towers over the house. The cubs can take this easy way down, except that doing so makes them visible to humans and dogs, and gives away their hiding place. Tonight, Slypaws will likely take them to the back of the roof where they will use the single slender cedar, which offers privacy but requires skill. This is what they have to do:
When they come to the eavestrough, they have to reach out with one arm for the top of the cedar while holding onto the eavestrough with the other. This isn’t easy, and they paw at the tree several times, almost tipping off the roof, before they get it in one hand. Then they must pull the top of the tree to their body, then leap and grab at once. It is undesirable to be suspended in midair, holding onto the cedar and the eavestrough simultaneously. Returning from their outing, the raccoons have to accomplish the reverse. That is, they ascend to the top of the cedar, then use their weight to bend the tree top close to the eavestrough, then let go and drop. I have seen the cubs do this expertly in total darkness.
But there is a human factor in this situation.
I’m not sure what the raccoons make of me. Probably, I’m just another example of the species they call Idiots. Yet I am respected by the local squirrels, who regard me as a source of play. This is because a door off my bedroom allows me to go out on a second-floor balcony forming the southwest corner of my house. Here I am likely to appear at any moment without warning, holding a deadly weapon. It is my son’s Super Soaker.
A Super Soaker is a plastic, pump-action submachine gun holding about a litre of water. Every squirrel around knows it’s capable of shooting a stream that is accurate to twenty feet. In fact, it’s become a neighbourhood sport for squirrels to test their reflexes against the Primate who squirts water. All the squirrels take up the game, not just the happily married couple who have eaten a hole in the roof peak of my house. The squirrels bring their family to watch. They invite their relatives. They squat in rows exactly twenty-one feet away and make bets on who will escape undrenched. All know that at worst a victim of my weapon will be soaked from head to tail. This fate isn’t unpleasant so much as embarrassing because it demonstrates to the spectators that the reflexes of the loser leave something to be desired. But enough of squirrels.
It is after midnight, and the raccoons are whimpering at the edge of the roof above my bedroom window. They are torn between bravado and timidity concerning descent by means of the slender cedar tree. But no – it turns out that they have a larger dilemma. Clutch, the elder brother, is having a crisis. I press my partner’s stethoscope against the bedroom windowpane.
Mother Slypaws: “Whatever is the matter with you, Clutch? The gap between the roof and the tree is no greater than it was last Autumn. In fact, the space is less because the tree has grown and so have you.”
Clutch: “Can’t move.”
Slypaws: “Is it the Idiot who squirts water?”
Clutch: “No.”
Slypaws: “Is it the slope of the roof?”
The mother was thinking back to when the cubs had emerged last year just after the first autumn frost. One by one, they skidded off the icy roof and shot straight into the cedar tree. Clutch as senior cub had spun off the roof first, ending upside-down in the branches, much to his shame. It was her fault they slid off the roof. Raccoons have a flexible joint which allows them to splay their hind legs so they can come down a tree nose first. She had forgotten to teach them to use their hind feet as brakes for the descent. That first night, over my bedroom window, the chorus of complaining cubs and an apologetic, guilt-ridden mother raccoon was epic. Tonight, they were repeating the original descent.
Touchwit looked at Clutch clinging with one arm to the top of the cedar tree which was bending downward with his weight. Her aptly named brother was paralyzed, holding onto the tree desperately while unable to let go of the eavestrough, suspended between the two.
“It’s something existential, isn’t it?” Touchwit said.
Clutch nodded his head.
“Perhaps if you say it in High Words, it will be easier.” Touchwit knew that raccoons switch to this ancient, formal language whenever they need to consult First Principles. And as first-born cub, Clutch was fervently drawn to First Principles, conditioned to grasp a firm bough then reason his way out to the end of the limb.
