Our Raccoons know us, know our habits.
I suppose it helps when we talk to them as we open the door from the backroom onto the porch.
Especially when, after the first formal greeting – “Hello Little Raccoons. How are the Raccoon Children?” – we go into “Anybody want a cookie? I have cookies.”
I would never consider giving a human child a cookie. Might end up in court for an act of kindness. Child Molester! Sicko! Deviant! Do you want my child to get fat?
Well, no. Husky, maybe, but definitely not fat.
I still remember Hank and Andy soaking me with a garden hose so I’d take my tshirt off to dry so they could ogle my adolescent manboobs. The looks on their faces make me laugh now, shamed me then. The two of them, licking their lips.
No wonder I write the stories I do, huh?
Or that I’ve chosen The Wild over the human, the Old Ones over the Two-Legged.
I wonder if Andy and Hank knew how much storyfodder they were giving me back then, long, long ago.
Or, for that matter, how much Raccoon has honored me by accepting me, whether I have cookies or not.
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