i fumbled out of bed, shambled into the kitchen and opened the back door.
the screen door was ajar. after having left it wide open so many nights these last few sweltering weeks, even on garbage and compost collection night, with no ill effects i thought nothing of it.
sleep didn't come easily.
i woke up at around 3 to a small commotion and cursed the adorable nocturnal habits of my beloved rodent pets bravo and fuggles.
but the noise kept up, and it wasn't a gnawing noise, or the squeaking of an exercise wheel (we'd just fixed that with some teflon) or even the sound of fuggles' cardboard box house being dragged though fresh hay in one of his fits of interior design.
the sound continued.
as i became more awake, i realized it was the sound of unwrapping. it was coming from the kitchen.
i blundered naked into the kitchen doorway.
there, sitting demurely on the round red doormat were two strange yearling male raccoons. the normal household raccoon was a large male who liked to eat bread and watch charlie's angels and other sexy action-comedies with our neighbour.
i took an assertive step into the kitchen.
i fully expected them to scatter and vanish when they saw me.
they merely regarded me with that bland acceptance common to jaded city dwellers and stuffed more nutri-grain bar into their mouths with their little hands. (they had previously eaten my last 3 sweet and salty bars, and all but one of the fruit n' fibre bars.)
i hissed like one does at a naughty cat, and when that was completely ineffective said "Shoo! Git!" and waved at the door.
the one closer to me took the last bite out of the wrapping, put the wrapper in the pile by the fridge and got down on all fours.
"AUGH! ok, just GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN ALREADY"
the farther raccoon grabbed a bag of pistachios he'd been eyeing and then took his leave. the closer one took a step back. i menaced him and made incoherent noises. he gradually backed out the door and made his way down the porch stairs.
i closed the back door and tried to sleep.
i thought about things.
i thought about writing. i thought about everything i hadn't written.
i missed telling you about the time littlestar and cheeseburger brown visited.
and the horrors of the G20.
and about my job.
i was reminded of the time the monkeys broke into the palapa house in mexico and wrecked everything.
the moral of this story is that you should just write anyway, and that it is way better to have sweet, tidy, urban, procyons in your kitchen than horrid, rude, messy, ruinous primates.
the raccoons left the banana peels in a pile with the wrappers. the monkeys didn't even eat the bananas, they just threw them at each other, stepped on them and left mucky sticky banana foot-prints all inside the fridge (which they opened and wrecked the contents of.)
all the granola bars the raccoons didn't eat were still neatly in the box.
i put one in my lunchbag, and set out into the air that hits you like velvet curtains, wondering what heat the sun would bring when it came up.
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