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| AI-generated graphic created by C. Aras |
We have been feeding raccoons for more than a decade—and, unfortunately, they won't let us stop. It's become a huge chore and ruinously expensive, but we're stuck because they simply will not leave. What began with a single blind female quickly expanded into several dozen every year, usually four mothers with multiple offspring. And a few extra beggars who show up later in the season, probably kits we've fed in the past.
We vow every year to cut them off when they depart in the winter but, inevitably, one or two never abandon us. That's because, in our temperate climate, they don't hibernate: they only have what's called a "winter sleep." So, we end up feeding these hangers-on all winter, too, and by spring, they are joined by a fresh contingent of starving, exhausted nursing mothers begging at our patio door for kibble and fresh water. We always cave in! And so the cycle continues.
Since we live on an island, keeping up with the requisite number of affordable bags of Whiskas cat kibble—their favourite—is difficult, especially in the fall when the babies have grown and their appetites are voracious as they fatten up for winter. A few days ago, we ran out Whiskas. I dashed to our soon-to-be-closed-forever hardware store to buy a few bags of whatever was available—what turned out to be a much more expensive, higher quality brand—to tide us over until our next delivery of Whiskas.
Instead of gratitude, we encountered only sullen looks. The raccoons pointedly ignored the full bowls behind them and stood on their hind legs, glaring at us through our glass doors, demanding what they're used to! How do we know what they want? Raccoons are excellent communicators and always manage to get us to do their bidding. But not this time. Despite the obvious protest, we ignored them, and by the end of the evening, their bowls were empty.
