Last night, as I was sprawled out on my couch, watching Weeds and trying to ascertain just how many balls I’d need to turn my basement into a ball pit, I heard a rustling sound coming from my garage. Well, I thought to myself, it’s probably not someone delivering delicious cuppity cakes. And it’s probably not the Tell Tale Heart.
After I got lost in thought about a heart-shaped cuppity cake, I realized I could still hear the rustling sound. Okay, it’s probably NOT the wind – that wily bastard – either.
Begrudgingly, I slunk off the couch and wobbled my way to the garage to see what, pray tell, was going on in there. Was it a nitrous party thrown by the kids next door? A Jehovah’s Witness attempting to stone my sinning ass? Had my car come to life?
(I may or may not have been feverish)(I also may or may not have stood there for several minutes giggling at the notion of the nitrous party kids being stoned by a Jehovah’s Witness)
It was neither of those things.
It was an adorably large raccoon, scritchity-scratching at a bag of dog food. But, you’re saying, Aunt Becky, you do not HAVE a dog. And I would reply, languidly sipping my coffee, that I did have a dog. Once. He’s, however, died.
He had the audacity to die RIGHT AFTER I’d bought him a large bag of food. And as often as I’d tried to remember to toss the 8172 pound bag in the back of the Family Roadster and dropping it off at the pet store. I kept meaning to, Pranksters, but the idea of trying to wrangle three kids PLUS a 04780737 pounds of dog food through a busy parking lot, well, it was unappealing.
So in the garage it sat, that sad bag of food for my dead dog, until the raccoon found it and decided that it was, in fact, his food.
I couldn’t disagree.
As I approached the door, still giggling, the raccoon stared at me, eyes wide open, all, “FUCK, I got BUSTED.” I see that same look on my kids’ faces whenever I catch them playing in the toilet. We stared at each other for a moment until he decided to slowly back away, out of the garage.
It was then that I decided instead of a monkey butler named Mr. Pinchey, I instead needed a raccoon sidekick.
I shall call him Walter.
It was totally me.