Some Action

Around 3am I woke up to sounds in the house. Seemed like a great deal of motion. I checked the baby monitor, but all was normal with her. The sound continued, getting louder downstairs. I had no power in my limbs. I was completely drained, but the sound was getting closer to the baby side of the house, and my biological imperative to protect my young was overpowering my sleep deprived listlessness.

I wrapped up in my robe, and crept downstairs. I heard the sounds above me as I crossed the dining room. Burglars? Goblins?

My senses became alert and instinctual. I took on feline expressions as I padded towards my daughter’s nursery. The sound grew louder in the hall outside her room. I gathered her up and walked back into the middle of the house. The scuttling seemed to transverse the roof, and ended up in my studio. Now the noise was coming from my bathroom. Loud.

I crept back upstairs, and woke Bear.

“Bear. Bear!”

“ *snuck, sniffle* wha?”

“There’s something in my studio bathroom.”

“Huh?”

“Something in my studio bathroom. It’s an animal or something.”

“Shit.”

Bear wrestled himself out of bed, and staggered into consciousness. At the top of the stairs he could hear the commotion from my studio. We tiptoed down the stairs. Bear, followed by me, with Sonatine in my arms – a tiny family parade, or hunting party. We stood in a clump outside the doors of my studio, listening to the weird tossing and scratching sounds. Bear motioned for us to back away. Bravely, like our hunter-gatherer ancestors (albeit in an Elvis t-shirt), he pushed open the doors, and entered the darkness towards the direction of the sound.

Reacting to mental images of my husband crashing out of my studio, covered with scratch marks and possibly feral dogs, I made haste to the kitchen.  I opened up the armory, A.K.A. the broom closet, and extracted a broom and a Swiffer. I also had the option of a plunger, but I thought it prudent to consider length. I returned to the lair of battle, armed for the sake of my progeny and my man. There I stood, warrior queen. Slung with our single heir, and the weapons of our fortress. I decided I would give Bear the broom, and I the Swiffer. I also unlocked the front door in case it was a “save the women and children” situation, and I had to run out the front, trailing woodland creatures and cleaning supplies in my wake, leaving my husband in the dining room, prostrate, covered in feces and rodent fur.  I was prepared for both contingencies.

I heard Bear coming toward the doors. I was ready. I whispered hot and loud, “So??”

“Not in there.”

“Huh?”

“Coming from the roof.”

“…the roof?”

“Yeah. I’m going back to bed.”

I was happy about the lack of wild dogs, but I’ll admit, a little let down. I’d sort of been expecting some action. Oh well.

Bear went back upstairs, and I went back to the nursery to put Sonatine back to sleep. I’d just begun to bounce her, when I heard Bear’s searing, whispered, scream from the stairs.

“RAYA! RAYA!”

I rounded the corner.

“What?!”

“Get up here! Now!”

Oh lord. It was true, we were being attacked. Our walls were being breached. It was dogs. It was goblins.

I followed Bears’ shadow into our room, and around to the bathroom. He pointed out the window. Oh God. What was it.

Squeezing my baby tightly, I leaned over the moonlit bathtub, to peer out the window… and there it was, the carnal truth.

Two Raccoons. Fucking on our roof.

Bear turned to me, “Thereya go.”

So there was some action that night after all.

Fucking Raccoons

Fucking Raccoons

And here are some fucking Raccoons. Not our fucking Raccoons, these are some fucking internet Raccoons. They're Fucking Raccoons.

Raya Yarbrough

Singer, Composer, writer of absurd stories about LA, chanteuse on Outlander, BSG, DaVinci's Demons, & I used to date Dick Grayson.