Hostage Taking

 Dear Mrs. Raccoon;

I would like my garden back please.

I know you are raising your five adorable babies in the window well under our deck.

I know you need a safe space to do so, and thought that would be suitable.

Well, you have worn out your welcome.

I am sure they are big enough to move along to a suitable forest.

I know one just down the street.

I realize they are still nursing on you.

I can see you all through our basement window.

A clear view of your nursery.

And yes, your babies are cute beyond reason.

Snuggly and cuddly and who wouldn't want to just pick them up and kiss them to death.

It is you, Mrs. Raccoon, who has put the fear of god into me.

I am afraid of you, to be quite frank.

Ever since that afternoon last week when I was enjoying a snack out on the back deck.

I saw you out the corner of my eye, as you came up onto the deck and wanted some of that snack!

Thankfully I had a broom handy - just in case - and was able to wave you away.

I don't know if you wanted the snack - or to warn me away from your kits.

In any case, it worked.

You have had the garden to yourself now for over two weeks.

And I am getting tired of it.

I am afraid to go out and fill up the bird bath; I am afraid to go out and pull the weeds, which are taking over at an alarming rate, given the abundance of rain that we have been having.

And now, you have declared war.

You have knocked over all of the garden art; the cat sculpture, the butterfly sun lamp, an empty planter I was looking forward to filling, and a wooden sign that displays the name "Pumpkin", my late, great horse.

But I am afraid of getting between you and your babies.

I am afraid of your desperation in your search for food to turn into milk to feed those babies.

I see you out in the garden during the daylight at all hours; 9:30 in the morning, 1:30 in the afternoon, desperately digging, searching, rooting around for something, anything.

Even though I am sure they are getting to the size and age where they can forage for themselves.

Or perhaps not.

As I watched them through the basement window last evening before I went to bed, the five babies were attempting to eat some rocks, trying to eat a discarded rag that had somehow made its way down there.  They were hungry!  You were not there.  Hopefully out getting some sustenance for yourself.

I realize five babies is a lot to ask of any mother.

At the risk of naming your babies after the Dionne quintuplets, I am simply asking you to please leave.

They seem able to climb out of that window well on their own now.

And I am sure they can scale that wooden fence that surrounds our backyard. 

If not, there is an opening I am sure you are aware of under the fence which will take you out onto the side yard.

From there you can creep along the houses in the dark and under cover of night, to the nicely forested area just a short distance away.

Or relocate to under a nice garden shed; or under someone else's deck.

Until your babies can strike out on their own.

You are doing them no favours by sheltering them still.

They need to launch.

You need to launch them.

Surely they are getting restless.

I see them rough and tumble with each other, when you are out getting food to provide nourishment to them.

They are anxious to go; impatient with their confinement.

I have to say that I am somewhat flattered that you have chosen our backyard as your haven; a safe place to have your babies.

You must have deemed it suitable; perhaps it was you who had another litter last year, and the year before.

A single mother, whose mate never sticks around to help raise the kits.

I recognize you, with the small chunk missing from the tip of your left ear.

Perhaps lost from frostbite, or fending off the attention of an unwanted male, or predator.

You are shy, and on the small size.

Your babies are the size of large kittens now, sheltering with you in that window well.

It cannot be comfortable.

There is no padding, no nest.

I often see you flat out on your back, arms up over your head, hand over your eyes to block out the light, soundly sleeping while the kits have at you, nursing away while you are off in oblivion.

Their little teeth must be painful, seeking the best teat with the most milk.

No wonder you send yourself off into a trance.

Or perhaps you are just so doggone tired after a night of foraging, searching frantically for some food, be it worms or slugs or grubs or what have you.

I watch you as you seem almost desperate in your search for something, anything, to eat.

I am sure your kits deplete your stores of milk as soon as you replenish them.

I feel kind of sorry for you, Mrs. Raccoon.

This is a big demand, you have a huge responsibility, and they seem a thankless bunch, only happy to sleep curled up beside you, for warmth and to have some relief from the rocks underneath them.

I look longingly out at the garden, as it becomes a wild, entangled, overgrown mess.

I wonder how much longer I can go on just looking at it, wanting to get out there and give it a good haircut, dreaming of putting the opportunistic plants in their place, before they get too out of hand and it is beyond my capability.

It really only has been a couple of weeks, and yet it feels like months.

Our summers are so short, Mrs. Raccoon, and here it is, two weeks gone by without my external attention to the garden.

I need that garden - and I believe it needs me.

I know I could hire somebody to remove you forcefully; gather up the kits and take you away to another place.

But that trauma would not be good for you, the kits, or me.

I have done that before, when one of your distant relatives decided to make a home in our attic; strewing the insulation all over the front lawn.

It was fearful when it got caught in the trap, thrashing around to break free.  

It was terrified and terrifying.

And I am reminded of how persecuted you are, an unwanted invader that humans will go to great lengths to get rid of, often inhumanely.

And I don't want to go that route.

There is enough of that already in the world.

But the other day I noticed there were two baby bunnies in the backyard.

I did not want them to befall the same fate as the four robin's eggs in the nest that I know you pillaged.

And so, when I saw your little face poking out from under the deck shortly after, I rattled the windows, banging on them to scare you back under the deck.  You shyly complied.

Then I went down to check on your babies, banging on the window to try to get them to get the hell out!  You heard the commotion, saw my flashlight shining in the window.  You calmly climbed back down to be with your babies, sheltering them, offering them some comfort from this threat beyond the glass.  You did not try to attack me, just protect your kits.

I immediately felt ashamed and remorseful.

I am hoping you will just decide one day that the time has come to move along.

And then we will seal up that deck space, block off the window well, so that it is no longer ready, willing and able to host any more of your kin.

We will sour the milk.

I will try to be patient until then.

Checking to see if you are asleep in the window well before I venture out onto the deck to retrieve something.

Not wanting to have a chance encounter with you in the garden, should you come between me and the sliding door into the safety of the house.

Not wanting to stress you or worry you or have you approach me with those pointy teeth of yours.

Not wanting to have a rabies shot in the aftermath of an attack, whether it be to protect your babies or just because.

Thankfully the weather has been cool and rainy these past few days; the lure of the back deck in the late afternoon is not calling.

And so, Mrs. Raccoon, it is with both a plea for my garden back, and a nod of encouragement that "You Got This!" in terms of taking your babies to another locale, that I am asking you to please leave.

As much as it has been a pleasure to watch you and your babies through the window, I think we would both be better off if you decided it was time to go.

Safe travels.