Last summer, a gray-haired raccoon kept creeping out of the runoff drains and into the street. Rumors spread about the old guy being rabid. Neighbors said that if we saw him to call the sheriffs office, and an officer would "take care" of him. Me, being a country girl, wasn't really concerned. Mark and I told the kids what to do if they saw him. But for the most part, we just left him alone, and we haven't seen him since the end of last summer.
Then, following her daily-first-thing-when-I wake-up ritual of looking out the front window to decipher the weather, Jillian declared, "Daddy, look at that cat!"
Well, not exactly, Jillian, but I don't think cats get more domesticated. It was a raccoon just strutting his stuff up and down the sidewalk. He didn't even flinch when I went out to take his picture. He just raised his front left paw in what seemed to be a gesture of hello. -- Now, as I am typing this entry, Mark sends me a picture message on my cell phone. He is on his way to work and is following a pest exterminator truck with a silhouette of a raccoon on the back. As soon as I get it on my email, I will post it too. Oh, the irony.
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