This is the part of the story where I consider doing something incredibly stupid but, through some miracle of self control and/or divine intervention, refrain.
I was sitting in the dark by a campfire when a raccoon appeared. The little bastard walked right up to me, as if I weren’t a big scary human hunter. The nerve! It eyed the bag of chips in my hand.
“Buzz off Ranger Rick!” I warned. I loathe “welfare animals”. Wildlife ought to be shy around humans. In a perfect world, all wildlife would understand that messing with people is bad juju. In a perfect world, all humans would get that too.
The raccoon approached closer. His posture was aggressive. Whoa! Aggressive to me?!? Talk about a bad decision!
I had an ax on my picnic table. Not far out of reach. I shifted ever so slightly in my chair, it was closer to my grasp now. It’s small and impressively sharp. A hatchet really. It has a tiny handle that fits in the palm like a musical instrument. It was a gift from a good friend, one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received. It’s meant for carving and woodcraft. It’s underutilized splitting scrapwood for a campfire but the little object had served that purpose admirably.
There’s another option. The sweet little hatchet could also be a wicked weapon! It would be unbalanced for throwing but for the hand its size is perfect. It sat there on the picnic table like Satan’s own brass knuckles. If you’d have seen me then… you’d have seen one of those huge evil grins that made old school Disney villains so delicious.
The raccoon missed every part of what I was thinking. It approached boldly, thinking to bully me away from the chips; as if to say “Do you even lift bro!”
I reminded myself that I was in a campground. This isn’t the forest primeval, red of tooth and claw. It’s a playground for normal civilized people. Kids and people and pets play here. Being awakened by a crazed woodsman hacking wildlife to death would not fit into their world view. Also, what kind of lunatic will engage in armed melee with an animal over half a bag of chips?
Me. I am exactly that kind of lunatic.
“I’ll throw down just like a guy with no standards.” I warned the raccoon. I said this quietly so as not to wake the other campers but in my deepest most menacing growl.
The raccoon looked at the potato chip bag, then at me. Animals may be primitive but they’re not dumb. Something in his little head clicked. He dropped down to all fours and dashed away. Probably he hadn’t been entirely sure I was human? Likely the usual response is someone shrieking; “eek a raccoon!” Maybe he’s seen people jump on the picnic table like Betty Boop cartoon? Perhaps drunk dudes chuck a chip and laugh. But a guy like me sitting in a chair in the dark icily plotting his demise? Not something the little beast expected.
I’m very glad he left.
The whole thing lasted maybe a minute. Was I really willing to get bit in twenty places and scratched everywhere else over a bag of chips? I dunno’. Presumably I’m not that dumb. Then again they were MY chips. Is any man ever really sure just how dumb he might be? I pictured Mrs. Curmudgeon getting a call from the cops. “Mrs. Curmudgeon? Your dipshit husband was arrested beating raccoons to death at a recreational facility. Could you come post bail? You’ll have to take him to the ER for stitches. Also, you need to get that man a hobby, the people at the campground will have nightmares after what they’ve seen.”
I ate another potato chip. It was delicious. The best and most well earned potato chip I’ve ever had.
More in Part 4.