Raccoon Surprise!

I know what you're thinking, Ben and Jerry's have gone too far this time. Well, it's OK you can relax. This post has nothing to do with Ice Cream. A constant companion of the cyclist, as he edges up the shoulder of Highway 101, is the interesting selection of wildlife encountered. Occasionally, a startled deer, sometimes a cow or two, a veritable cornucopia of snakes and lizards. Mostly, though, the wildlife is dead. What had once been a carefree, living, breathing creation has had it's lifeblood unexpectedly scattered to the winds.
For someone whose life has been spent mainly in the UK, a Raccoon seems exotic. Not anymore, the number 1 victim of American motorists appears to be the Raccoon. The poor thing. One becomes a little sad, although fascinated, at the variety of poses adopted by the Raccoon in death.
That is, until one encounters a Raccoon that is all too alive. One day, you will walk around a corner, probably on your way from one bar to another (which, in Oregon, means you can smoke in them, praise be) and then snuffling his way through his lunch will be a Raccoon, rounder than you think. The Raccoon will glance up at you, if you're really lucky, it'll bare his teeth, and it will be thinking, "I could have you". You will be in no position to argue. Bejesus, the teeth. These things are clearly not herbivores. My guess is they're partial to all sorts of small mammals up to and including Extra Lean Male, matured for 41 years (available for thruppence happenny per kilo at your local Walmart). Anyway, the Raccoon, will have glanced up at you in angry reproach, sized you up, concluded that in a fair fight this would be no contest. But, since when has nature been fair? The Raccoon will have no idea whether you're packing or not. It will have lost family, I'm sure, to the unforgiving fender of an SUV and to the lacerating thrust of a .357. It is in no position to force the issue and stand it's ground on the sidewalk (before you lean back, wincing at the word 'sidewalk', muttering to yourself about American's ruining the Queen's English, perhaps even tutting - ask yourself if you've ever seen a Raccoon on a pavement). So, it'll waddle (this was a well fed raccoon) across the road, taunting you with it's surly derriere, and settle underneath a bench until you've gone. You will continue on your way to the next bar and settle down to a selection of adequate ales to recover from the shock. You will wonder at the ashtrays, remember that this is Oregon, and light up. And you will no longer be surprised at the number of Raccoons littering the shoulder. These critters will have been sat in the fast lane, perhaps devouring a vole or two for dinner, when it will hear the growling of a family hatchback and it will glance up. It will bare it's teeth insolently at the glow of the headlights and begin trotting to safety. It will not make it and the cold steel (or whatever superstrong, lightweight material they use nowadays) of the fender will thwump into the flank of the Raccoon. The Raccoon will be thrown up into the air thinking, 'you cheating bastard' and land with a thud, it's teeth still glinting ready for battle. Finally, in a desperate, last act of defiance, it will arrange it's teeth and claws in such as way as to almost guarantee a puncture for the next, less well armed cyclist that isn't paying attention. That'll learn 'em.