Last night at about 4:00 a.m., a raccoon attempted to stage a home invasion robbery in my house.
I suspect that this is the same masked bandit that has been treating my backyard fishpond like his own personal sushi bar, so I had no sympathy for this bloodthirsty killer, especially when he perched himself on my three-year-old's magnetic easel and refused to budge, even after being spritzed with a squirt bottle and prodded with a broom. His only response was to stubbornly stay put, climbing up to the window ledge and, in a further show of defiance, shitting down our wall.
My husband said he felt sorry for the beast, and saw it as nothing more than a poor frightened creature who wanted nothing more than to escape, but I'm not the softy my husband is. If you think those eerie glowing eyes are just a reflection from my flash, you are mistaken, my friend. They looked that way the entire time. Ranger Rick is an agent of evil -- why else would he make a beeline for the sleeping quarters of the most tender and succulent of my family members?
I dialed 911 and asked them to connect me to the 24-hour animal services agents, who promised to show up in half an hour. But thirty more minutes in the company of this hellbeast wasn't something I could stand. Fortunately, my quick-thinking husband removed my still-sleeping toddler to safety, popped the screen out of the window, turned off the light and closed the bedroom door.
With my delicious daughter now out of reach, the wretched rascal had no option but to leave, presumably in search of other children to devour. Hopefully in Van Nuys.