It used to be that I looked forward to garbage night. What could be more satisfying than putting seven days' worth of refuse in containers, rolling it to the curb, and having someone else drag it out of your life? Few things, say I.
But for the past month or so, this one simple joy has been stolen from me. By what? By the Peninsula's largest and most horrifying raccoon, that's what. Come Tuesday, it is writ in stone that I shall lay eyes on the beast as it skulks about my property intent on knocking over a garbage can to sate its feral appetites. Of course, as with so many other things in my life, I am the only witness to this monstrosity. Neighbors have never seen it, the spousal unit believes it's a figment of my considerable imagination, and my father simply laughs at me.
But it is real. And what's more, I've only ever seen it raised up on its hind legs. Standing like that, it's easily as tall as Lea. And it does the most disturbing thing: it rolls its massive, fur-covered shoulders and glares at me. It's so big that I half expect it to speak or break into song as if it's not an actual raccoon at all, but a small person in a raccoon costume sent to entertain me. By a very sick person.
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