In my back yard there’s a large flattened area among the fireweed. It’s the raccoon stomping ground. Every night they have dances there, and if you listen carefully you might hear the sound of a fiddle in the wee hours of morning, the thump of dancing paws, the laughter.
The flattened area is quite large, 20 feet by 30 feet at least. The fireweed plants, more than six feet tall, have all been trampled down in that area before they had a chance to produce their lovely fiery flowers. The plants make a green carpet for the dancers…until they get trodden into the dirt. Every night a few more plants at the edge of the area succumb to the furry crowd, so the dance area constantly expands.
The raccoon band sits on a big white rock off to the side, allowing maximum room for all the flying, spinning tails of the dancers. They carry on all night and disappear with the rising sun. Once I glanced out at just the right time and saw a few brown furry bodies quickly disappearing into the surrounding wilderness. They don’t like intruders, and I was one.
In the winter, the snow pushes the remaining flowers down to the ground. There they rest until, with warm weather and the Spring runoff, the life cycle of the lovely plants begins again, the eternal dance of life and death. The raccoons thrive on this, and are an integral part of the process.
This summer, 2023, I have seen sixteen raccoons at one time in front of the house, generally around dusk. They are playing, eating what I give them, fighting, climbing the massive tree there, just enjoying life. Then they disappear for the night. God knows where they hide. I suspect there are more than twenty raccoons living near me now. I used to have over thirty wild cats, but never saw one of them except at feeding time. It’s the same with these ring-tailed warriors. God bless them all, and may their food money hold out!
