By June Mathews
Yep, they’re back, dadgum it. I haven’t seen them, but I heard them skittering around overhead late at night during the below-freezing temperatures we had last week.
And I’m mad as, well, heck, about it.
Even after an expensive new roof and soffit repairs, those blasted raccoons (or maybe some of their offspring) who so rudely invited themselves into our attic a couple years ago have apparently found a way back inside.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think there’s a neon “Vacancy” sign hanging from the eaves. And Jimmie and I suspect that somewhere around here, a red carpet has been rolled out to welcome every shelter-seeking raccoon for miles around. We’ve obviously got a five-star establishment here, and now that winter is coming, word of our hospitality (unintended, though it may be) is spreading fast.
Just knowing our backyard bandits are once again scaling door facings, siding or anything else that helps them in their climb, drives me nuts, and I’m not one for letting anything drive me nuts for very long before taking action. I inherited that quality from great-Grandmaw Harper, who tripped over an old wooden chair on her back porch only twice before taking a hatchet and turning it into firewood.
But so far I’ve learned that spouting bad language and banging on the ceiling with a walking shoe doesn’t help in the long run. The sneaky little devils will get quiet for a while, like they want who they must consider “The Crazy Lady Downstairs” to think they’ve left the premises. But before long, I’ll hear them creeping around again.
And while a hatchet might render a more permanent solution – at least until the next raccoon family comes along – I’m neither willing to chop holes in the ceiling nor shed the blood of innocent animals instinctively seeking warmth. It’s tempting, I admit, but I haven’t reached the point of raccoon-directed violence just yet.
I’ve heard that annoying music will drive small animals away, so I’ve seriously thought about installing a loudspeaker in the attic and playing a continuously-looping mix of Billy Ray Cyrus’s greatest hits at full blast. Of course that means I’d have to listen to it, too, and I’m really not up for that.
I used to consider raccoons cute, and back when I wore blue eye shadow and pink plastic doorknocker earrings I thought Billy Ray Cyrus was a decent singer. But times change, tastes change and circumstances change. Once you’ve had a raccoon or two living in your attic and suffered through nearly an entire season of Billy Ray on “Dancing With the Stars,” neither are very appealing anymore.
So here we are, once again subject to providing a winter home for uninvited guests and once again seeking to rid ourselves of our neighborhood home invaders for good. I’m not sure how we’re going to manage it. They’ve already proven themselves much shrewder than the humans on the premises.
But we’d probably better do something before they start inviting the relatives over for Thanksgiving dinner. They’ve proven capable of breaking into the attic and doing damage to the house in the process. The next thing we know, they’ll be stealing the good silverware, too.
