“All four?” Clutch asked.
“Trust Pawsense to have a big family,” Slypaws said. “But her instincts are out-of-sync. There’s going to be too many raccoons soon.”
“What’s wrong with too many?” Bandit asked.
“I couldn’t find many Crayfish last Autumn,” Slypaws explained. “And there’s something amiss with the Frogs.”
“Do you think other raccoons are eating them up?” Touchwit asked.
“No. Something is changing the River. I think it may be the Wolf-fish. They’re grazing on the riverbed. They’re eating up everything. Fish eggs, Crayfish, Snails, Turtles, Water Insects … We didn’t have so many Wolf-fish before.”
I quickly looked up Wolf-fish. It’s another name for Catfish, the bottom-feeders with whiskers. I didn’t know their bodies have taste buds. People around here call them Suckers. People from the Greater Metropolitan Area come up and fish for them, regarding them as a species of Carp.
“Is that why there aren’t any Frogs?” Touchwit asked.
“I don’t know. The Frogs may be scarce for the same reason the Wolf-fish are plentiful: the warmth of the water. This is supposed to be a cold, wild River.”
“Why don’t we go and live with Aunt Pawsense on her pond?” Bandit asked.
“It’s up to her to invite us. You see, it’s the mothers who decide how many raccoons will share a hunting ground. They look at how much food the territory offers, and then have large or small litters accordingly. There’s minnows galore, not to mention a corn field up your Aunt’s way, so she has four fat cubs and lots of space for them to inherit. Still, I doubt if she wants us in her neighbourhood. She’s rather snooty.”
“I thought raccoon fathers decided on the size of territories.”
“No, they only defend them. The mothers produce the population, so they determine the territory.”
“Including the number of fathers in a territory?”
“The number of available fathers depends on the number of available mothers,” Slypaws replied. I heard the laughter in her voice. “Which makes you rather special.”
“I don’t want to be special, I don’t want to determine a territory, most of all I don’t want to have cubs and have to hide in a chimney …”
Touchwit’s hissing was audible through the wall without the stethoscope.
“What happens to the leftover raccoons who aren’t needed to balance the population?” Clutch asked.
“They migrate. Some become bachelors like Uncle Wily.”
“If feeding and breeding processes balance out, I don’t see that I’m needed,” Touchwit said. “I shall become a Random.”
“It’s not balancing out in Raccoonopolis: too many clan families in one territory. They’re coming up here to get away from each other. They want fresh air and a rich hunting ground for their children, like what your Aunt has.”
“How can the rhythms of the species not balance out?” Bandit asked.
“They do … eventually. But in the in-between times you get conflict. Too many mouths and too little food means the fathers start brawls. You can’t scavenge in peace without two males lashing their tails and screaming blue murder at each other. What’s the matter, Clutch? You’re silent.”
“I’m confused. The holy rhythms of our species are so tangled up and there’s nothing us raccoons can do about it. All we can do is live by our instincts, which means fight or flee – fight for a place in a territory or flee to another territory. Living like that brings out the worst in a raccoon. We are a noble species, endowed by our creator with virtue.”
“I consider it a virtue to jump a fat Lady Raccoon, and thereby serve the holy rhythms of our species,” Bandit said.
“You’re so sick,” Touchwit said. “The Primates have pretend mating relationships, isn’t that right, Mom?”
“Yes. They choose their mates somehow. I can’t imagine how it’s done. And they don’t produce cubs until they’re good and ready to.”
“Why don’t we do that as well?”
“Hormones. We come into season and it’s let’s make cubs at first sight.”
“Not me!” Touchwit declared.
“Then you’re going to have to talk to your body and the seasons about delaying the hots.”
Silence. Slypaws must have smiled at the successful conclusion to her teaching moment, because I heard no more conversation that night. Just sighs of weariness as bodies nestled together.
“Such a long journey!”
“And yet we hardly got to see the City.”
“It felt like a dream.”
“Good night gang!”
“Dream no small dreams.”
6
There was little activity behind my wall for the longest time. Occasionally, someone shifted position and disturbed the others, and once Touchwit sang in her sleep. The rainy season would have to pass before the next event in the family saga.
Instead, I amused myself by feeding seeds to the alpha male chickadee with two wives. One morning, feeling full of himself, he broke into the chickadee mating call which sounds like Hi sweetie and shooed his wives away from my outstretched hand.
