Making peace with the raccoons

I shine the beam of a flashlight out my dining room door into the trees behind my house. Searching the ponderosa pines through the black night, I see two, then four glowing eyes reflected in the light of my torch. The scratching and clawing I hear out my open door can only mean one thing; the raccoons are back.

I yell, "Get out of here!" into the quiet Sunday night, waking neighborhood dogs who respond with barks warning me to quiet down. The masked bandits retreat to the back side of the tree, out of my sight but not out of danger. The peanut snacks I offer the neighborhood squirrels are too tempting for one yell to dissuade the raccoons to leave. By retreating to the backside of the tree, the raccoons prepare to wait me out.

The wait is short-lived as I rush the tree, waiving a broom and alerting the barking dogs that I mean business and by no means will quiet until my nemesis leave my premises.

I used to love raccoons. Their little nose, small hands and ringed tail remind me of a large kitten cute enough to pet. Then it all starts. First are my peanuts. Each morning I fill my squirrel box with nuts only to find them gone each morning. I am surprised at how many nuts a squirrel can eat then became suspicious when piles of poop began to thicken under the nut box.

Next, on a beautifully warm summer morning, I walk through my garden gate to discover my koi pond destroyed. The water lilies are ripped out of their soil, the rocks surrounding the pond now rest at the bottom of the water and the fish, although still alive, are very timid and dart to the bottom of the pond as my shadow falls on the water.

While rebuilding my pond, I take a break and decide to weed my garden. I quickly pick the few unwanted plants from the tomato beds and turn my attention to the shallots - which are all gone. After a quick investigation of the area, I see the unmistakable paw prints of a raccoon in the vacant bed.

Now I have a problem; the once cute and kitten-like raccoon has now become an enemy to be defeated.

I work hard to nurture and grow food to feed my belly throughout the winter and to know that an opportunistic scavenger is helping himself to my harvest is unacceptable. I feel violated, hurt and taken advantage of.

I wage war! I spray small-animal repellent everywhere the raccoon has been, put a net over the pond and sit on my back deck at night waiting for the return of the ringtail. I'm not sure what I will do if the raccoon returns, but know I must do something.

Last night the raccoon returns. I again hear scratching on the pine tree, grab my flashlight and am prepared to end this battle between man and beast. I shine the light on the peanut box and catch the raccoon with fruit from my four-year-old dwarf Fuji apple tree in his little paws. From behind the tree a baby raccoon joins the feast. Nibbling on the apple, both animals look at me, startle, run down the tree, across the yard, up my fence and escape. The half-eaten apple lays at the base of the tree, evidence of the encounter.

I turn off my light, sit on my deck chair and smile. One can't fault a raccoon for being a raccoon. This little animal and his predecessors lived in these woods long before I did and have learned to adapt with my intrusion into their home.

I declare a truce. I believe I can share a few nuts and an apple as a gift and possible declaration that we can live together and share the same bounty; each taking only what we need. While pondering the events of this summer, I wonder why I become upset when these animals, who have more ownership of this land than I do, expect to use the land they own? Maybe this is a question for us all to ponder?

Send comments or other suggestions to Bill Rutherford at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit pensiveparenting.com.