The Beauty of Nature

While homesteading high in the imposing mountains of Montana, one day there appeared an enormous raccoon at our place, a truly surprising event. While sharing grain with the barnyard crew, the lowlander was a respectful fellow. His gentle nature and long soft fingers enticed our grandkids to feed him Milk-Bone dog biscuits.

Then we didn't see Bandit for several weeks, until one day he wandered into the tack room to chatter and introduce his bride to my husband, Ken. Detective work revealed the pair had gathered straw and set up housekeeping in a corner of the old A-frame loft. I yearned for bountiful wildlife and couldn't have been more tickled over the prospects of newborns on this place.

Sure enough, in early summer, along came Ring-Ring with eight toddlers in tow. As blatant suckers for all this cuteness, we constructed a platform in the big pine next to the deck and adjacent to the doggy door. (Now don't get ahead of me here.) The demanding bunch came daily for kibbles, while I happily hosed off the perch and deck morning and evening. Word spread like wildfire on our mountain, and neighbors, kids, and cameras descended like locusts. As the little fellas got bigger and pretty one-way about their cuisine, it became apparent we had dug ourselves into a very deep hole. This family had been accustomed to morning and evening handouts and Ring-Ring was pretty fussy about her burgeoning family's ravenous appetites.

Our devoted keeshond had always ferociously guarded her doggy door (and the kibble drawers just inside), so neither Ken or I thought twice about attending a neighbor's wedding all afternoon and evening. We should have!

When we returned home, we found that the kitchen of our new log house looked like it might have been the set of a Disney comedy. The faucet spewed a steady flow. Canisters were everywhere, and their contents adorned the nooks and crannies of each golden log. Cupboards and drawers, covered in tiny handprints, were open, and pilfered of edibles – rice, cereal, soup mixes, gelatin, cocoa – well, you get the picture. Guess I wasn't too surprised to see that those clever fingers had managed to open the peanut butter jar and, of course, they obviously included drinks with their meal. The final blow was the laundry room. How on God's green earth they missed the fridge and freezer, I'll never know.

As I crumpled onto a chair in utter disbelief, Ken gave me a forlorn look and announced, "Don't look at me sweetheart, this is woman's work!"

Our lives were being domineered by a family of wild intruders, and what's worse, caused by our inability to say "No!" Shucks, we raised three pretty great kids using the word, "No!" Why couldn't we handle this precocious crew? So we locked the doggy door, which did not go over well with the dog and kitties. We dismantled the tree perch and began a practice of sweeping the adolescent gang off the porch. As winter approached, we heaved huge sighs while noting less and less of the holy terrors. Hopefully, they had gotten the message and were rustling up their own grub from the wild.

But upon unloading groceries into the house just before Thanksgiving, two of the half-pints appeared on the deck begging a handout. I grabbed the broom and the critters grabbed me on the hand, just enough to open a bloody scuff on my index finger.

"Damn you little devils!" I screeched.

After eight weeks of hot pink rabies vaccine, everyone simply shook their heads and suggested I should be wearing a rabies tag. Guess what I got for Christmas?

We are now blessed with the presence of just two or three aesthetic-value raccoons. They drink from our pond, are respectful of our waterfowl, and have absolutely no contact with the humans who dwell within the house. Since that outlandish summer, we've practiced making friends with our neighboring wildlife from afar, just the way God intended.

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