I Hate Raccoons

I like to consider myself one with nature.  Maybe not the fauna so much but definitely the flora.  How delighted I am when what I consider my own hummingbird comes back to my deck each year to enjoy my potted plants as much as I do.  The marigolds I thought would never bloom are now bursting with color.  And even my morning glories this year are morning glorious.

But wildlife?  Hang on a second while I deep breathe to lower my blood pressure.

I have a fox.  Red.  But not the beautiful kind you see in photos.  This one is scrawny and mangy.  Yet it has been known—by me—to kill baby raccoons and squirrels.  Where does the fox leave them?  In my driveway or on my lawn. That’s after they’re gutted.

I have neighboring cats, who kill my birds, which is why I no longer fill my bird feeder.

I have squirrels that dig into my flower pots.

The skunks?  Occasionally.  Also woodchucks and the wandering possums.

But what really drives me up the effing wall are the raccoons under my deck.  I cannot get rid of them.

When I had the new deck put in, the contractor put up chicken wire and assured me that would keep them out.  Ha-ha-ha.

Every February they rut.  Every spring a mother comes out with her four/five/six babies, all over my deck.  The months pass, the babies get bigger; and nothing can stop them roaming my deck, especially as the acorns fall.

I have tried everything.  Ammonia, turmeric, onion, bird spikes, flashlights, professional pest control people.  Absolutely nothing works.

Some people find raccoons cute.  Meanwhile, I applaud every dead raccoon I see at the side of the road.  And why aren’t the coyotes taking care of my pest problem?

You’re thinking, has she brought out the old 12 gauge?  I’m not going to jail over a raccoon, thank you very much.

What about poison?  Even I’m not that cruel.  Besides, who’s to say only the raccoons would pick up the poison?  Do I want to kill a neighbor’s cat?  Nope.

I am truly at a loss.  Every night at twilight out they come.  That’s about the time I check in the cupboard to see if I have enough bourbon to calm the nerves.  Then the next morning I find raccoon urine and occasionally a pile of raccoon shit right outside my sliding door.  They know how to push all my buttons!

Anyone with suggestions?  And please don’t tell me the raccoons were here before I was.  Yeah, I know. When we bought the house, they were in the attic.  Live and let live is not a policy I live by—re: raccoons.

I shall await words of wisdom.