By Stan Kid
"Why?" I asked, not particularly keen on venturing out into the hot sun just yet.
"There's a raccoon stuck in the wall of Omar's garage," he replied breathlessly.
"What do you want me to do about it?" I asked, still thinking of the heat.
"You don't want to miss this," he answered with a chuckle.
That's all it took. I'm a sucker for fun at someone else's expense. I shot out the door and headed across the street.
Bill's next-door neighbor, Omar, is in the midst of a major home renovation. In addition, the Village of Rockville Centre has been replacing the curbs and preparing to resurface the street (the quality of which job has some residents rather upset, but that's another column). As with most extensive residential construction work, the disturbance tends to irritate and confuse the local wildlife, chasing them from their natural habitat, which, in the case of suburban raccoons, is the sewer system.
As I arrived at the driveway, I was greeted by another neighbor, Josh, who quickly reminded me of his prediction that all the ongoing street work would have us overrun by mice and rats. The fact that raccoons are neither was irrelevant to Josh, who insisted he had been proven correct.
Raccoons are nocturnal delinquents; they don masks in order to avoid being identified by irritated homeowners whose trash cans they've upended, leaving garbage strewn all over their driveways. They possess little hands, which, in addition to giving them the ability to pick the locks on storage sheds and garages, probably make them capable of dealing blackjack. They laugh at locking trash can lids. They can be cute little buggers, but they have sharp teeth and, as I noted, they are nocturnal, so when one is observed in daylight it is safest to assume it is sick, possibly rabid. This little fact keeps people rather jittery around raccoons and provides me the greatest potential for amusement.
The furry intruder had apparently found its way into Omar's garage sometime during the night, seeking only a quiet little corner for a snooze. When confronted in the morning by Omar's contractor, Ralph, it attempted to escape through a small hole in a piece of plywood that served as one of the garage walls.
Now, the front end of a raccoon is rather small and fits easily into little spaces. The rear end is more on the rotund side. I don't think raccoons know this. This particular one managed to get itself halfway through the opening in the plywood, then got stuck, its big butt stopping it from getting all the way through, and the jagged edges of the wood preventing it from backing out. This wasn't a happy raccoon. In fact, if its yelping and growling were any indication, this was one very irritated raccoon.
In addition to Omar, Josh and Bill, there were Bill's wife, Lisa, their kids, and one of Rockville Centre's finest, who was aggravating Omar simply by not jumping the raccoon, putting it in handcuffs and trotting it off to the station house. Instead, he notified a Nassau County Emergency Services Unit, whose job it is to handle such situations. Omar was only slightly less unhappy than the raccoon.
While we waited, the raccoon continued its attempts to free itself, barking and yelping and hissing its frustrated anger. Bill's curious young son, Will, encouraged by his older brother, Ryan, began inching his way cautiously closer to get a better look. This is the kind of moment I live for. I waited until he was only a couple of feet away from the squirming critter, then I snuck up behind him, grabbed his leg and yelled. I was rewarded by the sight of Will leaping several feet into the air while screaming, "[Expletive deleted]!"
The two Emergency Services officers arrived sooner than we'd expected. Clearly, this was the Special Raccoon Patrol, for they were equipped with animal snares, a halligan tool, a Sawzall, a circular saw, pepper spray and .9mm automatic pistols. Did I mention that this was only one raccoon, and a rather small one at that?
After much discussion and several attempts to pull the now violently angry raccoon through the plywood opening with the animal snare, the two ESU officers got serious. They wrapped the animal in a second snare and unholstered the Sawzall. While one officer held the raccoon down with the snares, the other cut away enough of the wall to pull it free, spitting and snarling and looking to dig its teeth and claws into anyone it could reach.
After cutting it loose, one of the officers encouraged it down the street toward the corner storm drain. The raccoon marched obediently on its hind legs, one hand grabbing at the snare noose around its neck, the other trying to grab the officer's gun.
Once at the storm drain, the officer loosened the noose and nudged the critter in. End of story? Not quite. This, apparently, was not the raccoon's home sewer. It quickly skittered out and began making its way down the street with the frustrated ESU officer in hot pursuit and everyone else scrambling for safety. I began rooting for the raccoon.
To my disappointment, the officer, after yelling several times, "Halt or I'll shoot!" managed to resnare the escapee. He brought it back to the storm drain. This time, the raccoon made the wise decision to scurry in and stay put.
When I left, Omar was repairing his garage wall, muttering something about paying enough taxes for the cops to have just shot the little pest and turned it into a hat, Will was still shaking, Bill was still chuckling, Josh was asking where he could get mouse traps and I was happy as a clam.
That was one fine way to start a Saturday morning.
E-mail your comments for Stan Kid to nywriter@gmail.com.
