Last night I filled the cat food bowls in the mudroom, shut the garage door, and grabbed a bag of garbage for the dumpster. Suddenly a raccoon came racing up the mudroom steps toward me with our two cats, Mario and Marvin, on his tail. I screamed, dropped the garbage bag, and grabbed a shovel. The cats backed the coon against the kitchen door hissing, biting, and clawing. Bob and Caroline peered at the mayhem through the door window.
(Note to men: When your wife is being attacked by a coon, that is not the time to lecture her on leaving the garage door up and allowing coons access to cat food. Just kill the damn coon.)
The coon ran under a bench and then behind the freezer, and the cats ran in the house. Bob went to the barn for a pitchfork. I will not describe any more, but the coon did eventually run outside, wounded, never to be seen again (I hope).
Our foreign exchange student, Michelle, heard the commotion from her room, but was afraid to come downstairs. Smart girl. The sight of Bob leaning over the freezer with a pitchfork isn’t something she needs to see.
I’m not sure how much the folks in the retirement home across the street heard. Just another night at the Freese Farm.
I am proud of our cats. They chased, attacked, and cornered that coon with claws outstretched. They were protecting me. The photo below is Mario. He’s a big cat. When his tail is puffed out and fur on end, he’s the size of a pit bull.
This is not THE coon. It’s a photo Becca Selkirk uploaded to Living the Country Life. But the teeth are the same.