Rocky

You see that pile of dusty gray fuzz over there?

What is that?  Is that an old dishtowel that blew off of someone's clothesline into your yard?  Hey!  It's moving!

I know.  It's a raccoon.

Raccoon?  Don't they only come out at night?  Is it sick or something?

No.  Apparently some of them just prefer to live their lives in the daylight.  He's not sick.  He's just kind of unique.  His name is Rocky.

He was named by Paul McCartney.  Not personally, but you know, in a song by the Beatles.  My family just decided we should call him that.

We came back from a week long vacation to discover he had moved into a bundle of sticks and leaves high up in a tree which grows right outside our kitchen window.  This tree has previously housed squirrels, owls, woodpeckers, possums, grackles... it's like a suburban wildlife condo or something.  And I normally don't mind these neighbors, but previously they've all had the sense to be discreet.

Every morning, while I'm making coffee I see Rocky climb down from the tree and make his way to the back porch.  I meet him on the back porch and I yell at him.  I used to yell, “Shoo!  Scat!  Beat it!” among other things which I will refrain from repeating out of a sense of decorum.  Once, I tried to intimidate him with a broom.  He wasn't impressed.  Now I just yell, “Why?!  Why, Rocky?!  Why can't you be like the other raccoons and sleep during the day?  I wouldn't even have to know you live here!”

And Rocky will pause in his inspection of the flower beds and look up at me as if to say, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, Rocky!  I'm talking to you!  Why?!  Why do you have to live in my yard?  Why do you have to spend all your waking hours digging for edible tidbits under my lawn?  Why do you have to constantly parade around in broad daylight daring me to trap you or have a kid shoot you with his air rifle or call critter handlers when I would so much prefer to just ignore you?  A ticking parvo or rabies time bomb waiting to explode all over the children and pets in this neighborhood?  At least you could have the decency to pretend to be scared of me while I'm out here yelling at you!”

Rocky looks up, “Are you still talking?  I'm trying to eat a worm here.  I can just barely subsist on what you've got for grub in this yard.”

“I know that, Rocky!  Why don't you leave?  Why don't you head for greener pastures?  Why don't you move to somewhere where the land is flowing with restaurant dumpsters and rainwater run-off?”

Rocky licks his lips and wipes the side of his nose with the back of his tricky little black hand.  He blinks at me.  “Are we done, here?  I wanted to go see what I could find under your hedge.  But I can wait until you're finished.”

I sigh.  “Yes, I'm done.”

And he ambles off to the hedge.

“I hope you get hit by a car, you know.”

“Oh, I'm not going that far.”

“I know.”