The Case of the Raccoons

Editor’s Note:  This actually happened last weekend, but I was too lazy to edit and post.  Do you ever get to such a state of boredom that even the things that can entertain you, beyond facebook and googling movie stars from your childhood, seems like too much work?  That is what life is like once you’ve given two weeks noticed and trained the new staff assistant to replace you.  And this story is equally traumatizing over a week later– just so everyone is aware. 

I spent Saturday night hanging at my co-worker Bree’s house just off H Street.  We had just finished a delicious summer meal– grilled pork chops and corn, fresh bread spread with a mixture of ricotta cheese and pesto– and had retired to the porch to gossip and watch the neighborhood go by.

I had my boots kicked up on her railing, talking to Bree and her sister about some random thing, when what I thought was a cat skulked out from under a red truck parked in front of her house.  It took to me a minute to realize that the cat was actually a raccoon.  And it wasn’t just one raccoon but six that crept out from under the car and started tussling with each other 5 feet away from my person.  Did I ever mentioned that I’m deathly afraid of raccoons?

While Bree stood on the chair, like a rational person, and started clapping and yelling at them, I started freaking the fuck out.  Back against the house, blood pressure rising, flailing my hands in the air and mentally creating a game plan in case one of the raccoons decided to climb up on the porch.

They ran up the trees and down the tress, came precariously close and seemed completely unphased that there were two women– one on the verge of a straight up panic– standing on the porch incredibly shocked to see them.

After they’d made their way up the block and out of sight, Bree and I both scrambled back in the house where I continued to holler a string of words that made little sense along the lines of– fuck fuck fuck and gross gross gross while shaking out my whole body like a wet dog.

“Wow,” Bree told me a couple minutes later as I’d settled somewhat, “I’ve never seen you bitch out like that.”  And bitch out I did.  The fear coursing through my body was so real that I’m not even embarrassed.

I got to work Monday morning and another co-worker asked me about my weekend.  “We got attacked by raccoons at Bree’s house, ” I said.

“So they walked by?”

Yeah, pretty much.  Fuck raccoons.

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