ringo

after the wisteria blooms faded, there were tons of them, the heavy mature vines began leafing. we noticed as we trudged through the fallen blooms that it created a very shady place on the back porch. just about that time we noticed some rather large splotches of what can only be called feces.

these were not the uniform baby carrot shaped droppings of one on a preplanned diet, but ill-formed puddles of one suffering the intestinal woes of a scavenger. one day i went outside to find our trash bag splayed open like an experimental frog, and all the delicate tender bits rotting away au naturale. there was a fish taco laying on the banister (of course i naturally blamed my husband for this crude behaviour and thought, is that man insane?). i tried to ignore it (my standard way of dealing with disgusting turns of event), but the taco demanded i take it in hand and return it to it's rubbermade grave for eventual casting into the sea of forgetfullness. or the city dump.

my beloved and child spied the villain one early morning when they opened the kitchen blinds. they told me about it after i awoke, some hours later. they had gone down and chased it off. but i was bummed, i wanted to see it.

it was a racoon, he was huge!

my girl proclaimed.

i missed it. damn. don't chase it off,

i told my husband.

i want to see it.

he said,

i'm going to have to trap it.

and then what are you going to do with it?

i asked. knowing what he'd say.

turn it loose someplace in the wild. but this didn't seem a realistic or reasonable option. i'm not sure how territorial raccoons are, but i figured, they have to know their homeland, kind of like cats. it would be cruel to displace him because we don't like the little landmines he leaves us. cruel and selfish.

they carry diseases,

my husband, ever the pragmatist, said.

i'm hearing only:

this is problem. me, husband. solve problem.

but i'm thinking: that sweet little racoon never harmed us. why run him off. he's cute.

this folks, is where it all goes bad for us usually. he gets his way because he is generally right. (which irks me to no end). and my affinity for woodland creatures notwithstanding, he doesn't want them around and will take action to elminate them.

but since the little guy hasn't been in our trash since that first incident (i take care to bury all the stinky trash deep in the can. leaving the rest of the stuff on top), i see no problem with him sleeping in the wisteria.

we named him today.

my husband came back upstairs after leaving for work, we snuck downstairs and sure enough, there was the little guy sprawled out in the wisteria, sleeping. his little black clawed feet dangling through the lattice. then he heard us and stretched his little front paws out (he was a good two feet long when stretched out, his tail was longer, i didn't see it, so couldn't make a estimate about it. remember, he is over us. we're not directly under him), but we got to where we could see him seeing us. we'd waken him. and he was looking down at us, sleepy, wanting to go back to bed, and pretty out of it.

when i'd encountered him in the past, it was dark and i flipped on the kitchen light. his reflecty eyes shone through the window. and i, like a knucklehead, moved toward the window instead of shutting off the light. because it was just dusk and i could have seen him pretty well. but i left the light on and he saw me approaching and scampered off. i only caught a brief glimpse of him, but it was a great view of his sweet little face. his bandit mask and reflecty eyes.

if you've got to be a pest, may as well be a cute one. at least then you have a chance of being tolerated.

so my girl and i are standing there staring up at him, and i say, we've got to name him.

ringo,

she says.

and we came inside, so he could sleep. he's like a teenager, out all night, sleeps all day. what a life.