The mother raccoon drank deeply from the moving waters then balanced on her haunches. She inspected the surrounding forest while her front paws sifted through the moist dirt. A tree-scamperer disappeared into a nest hole. Far off she could make out the shape of a tail-lifting stink-sprayer digging around a log. Her paws felt a small, round, hard thing. It was not a thing for eating, but she pulled it from the mud and turned it over and over – slippery, smooth, soothing — before dropping it. Wading a few feet, she resumed her search. Her paws sifted; her eyes noted the rotting stump where ground crawlers and slitherers hid. Movement in the sand—the shape of a pinching-creature. She yanked it out of the water, one of its squeezing parts already compressing her delicate paw. Quickly she lifted the creature to her mouth and bit off its head—the squeezing released; the pain stopped. Pulling apart the creature’s thin shell, she savored the juicy meat inside. Again she sifted through the stream, catching and feasting on two more of the creatures. Abandoning the waterway, she dug around the rotting log. Two crawlers darted out. She gobbled them quickly and turned to the long slow thing which tasted squishy and dirt-like. Clawing at the decayed wood, she discovered where the pale squirmy-things were hidden. Then she moved to the sometimes-berry tree that during this season had new-opening greens, soft on the tongue and releasing sweet moisture. Suddenly the night wind brought a stench, raising her neck hairs. A barking-beast was in the forest. She must protect her young! A loud yelp told her she had been scented. Mother raccoon raced for her nest tree, excited yelps and crashing sounds following behind. Halfway up she turned, snarling. The beast was large, almost twice her size. She arched her back, made herself bigger. Barking furiously, the creature stretched to its full length, its front claws raking the trunk. Mother raccoon bared her teeth, hurled low raspy barks back at it. Though the beast flung itself at the tree again and again, it was unable to climb up. Mother raccoon’s heart began to pound less rapidly. Gradually she became aware of movement and chirruping inside the tree hole. Jumping into her den, she surveyed her five young—sparsely furred bodies, eyes and ears still clenched closed. Aroused by her arrival, they squirmed themselves toward her, their mouths making sucking motions against her legs. She ignored them, her focus on the sounds of the barking beast circling the tree. Only when its yaps settled in one spot and became more rhythmic did she yield to the chitters of her babies. Mother raccoon lay down, allowed her young to nurse, but she did not relax. This barking-beast now knew the location of her den. Her tree nest was no longer safe. She must move these five to another place. The barks blared less insistently, became farther apart. Then a yelp of discovery, the sound of crashing through leaves and underbrush—the beast off in pursuit of some other victim. Still mother raccoon lay awake and alert. A few hours before dawn she licked her babies awake. Her strokes across the back of their necks made them purr-chirrup frantically, arousing their need to suck. She let them drink until they were full and falling asleep. Then she stood and moved to the edge of the den, waiting for the five to squirm themselves into a warm mass. She leaned out the tree hole, scrutinized the ground for movement, straining her ears, sniffing the air. At last she bent over the nearest baby, clamped her teeth around his neck skin and lifted him into the air. He curled his paws and tail and hung like a limp sack. Backing down the tree, mother raccoon half dragged half carried her awkward bundle. Then, baby dangling from her mouth, she trotted silently through the underbrush. An empty tree hole lay on the other side of the moving water. It was smaller than her birthing tree but it would be warm, and the barking-beast would not be there. When she approached the riverbank she set her burden on the ground. The limp sack became alive and began squirming about. During most of the year this was her stream-crossing place, here where the ground was higher, the water not so deep. But now was the full-water time. Reestablishing her grip around the baby’s neck, she began to ford the waters. Though she held her head high, by midstream the rushing wetness covered her legs and belly, came partway up her sides, and sloshed across the baby’s curled hind parts. Suddenly the churning waters wrenched her feet from under her. The cold wet swirled over the baby, tugging him away from her. Mother raccoon tightened her grip, pumped her legs, and at last felt ground under her again. Striding to the stream’s edge she set the kit on the ground and shook herself. Gobs of liquid spewed in every direction, leaving her fur almost dry. The baby, thin hair plastering wetness to his body, did not move. Mother raccoon uttered a shrill cry and began licking the water from his back and sides and legs. She rolled him over and licked his belly. She licked his face and the top of his head. He whimpered. Still she continued, moving him around and stroking him over and over with her coarse tongue. When his whimpers at last changed to thin cries she grasped him about the neck and sprinted for the new tree. Mother raccoon deposited her baby on the den floor, odors assailing her nostrils: sweet smell of decaying wood; dusty scent of the no-longer-fresh nesting leaves of a tree-scamperer; shredded bark and faint pleasant trace of a time-ago birthing by another of her own kind. A small crawler attempted to escape from the leaves; mother raccoon ate him. Turning to her motionless baby, she began licking him again, her tongue registering his chilled state. She lay down then, curling her body around him, forcing her own warmth into his frame. When she could feel the little body generating its own heat, mother raccoon stood and moved away. The kit mewed, then curled into a ball and went back to sleep. It was not good to leave him; he would get cold again. But she had other babies and they must be brought to the new den. She ran back to the stream, swam across, and shook the water from her fur. This wet crossing was not good for her babies; she must find another. But the only other crossing was the too-wide trail. The too-wide-trail was a strange, unnaturally long, flat, rock-like expanse where no trees or bushes grew. Still, like walking across an on-its-side-tree that gave passage across a water flow, the too-wide-trail would carry her to a place where she could look down and see the moving stream below her. Past that part, she could run back into the trees. The too-wide-trail was a way to get her other young to the new nest without getting them wet. But the too-wide-trail was a frightening place. It smelled of dead, bitter, ruined rocks. It offered no place for hiding. And more than once mother raccoon had seen the body of a dead animal lying alongside it with no kill-eater around. What creature would kill and not stay to eat—unless something had frightened it away. The too-wide-trail was a not-right place; it harbored some hidden danger. Nonetheless, mother raccoon carried her next kit up the hill instead of down to the water crossing. At the edge of the tree thickness, she listened, sniffing the air. She edged onto the non-ground, then raced along the too-wide-trail, across the over-the-stream place, and back into the woods. When she released this baby onto the floor of the new den, he thrilled loudly. But her attention was on her other kit who lay with his back against the tree wall, his head curled tightly into his stomach. With a chirrup of alarm, mother raccoon began licking him. He whimpered, groped for the warmth of her body. She lay back then, herding the cold one with her paw, letting both babies find her nipples, circling herself around them. Another trip to the old den. This time when she picked up the nearest, a female, the other two woke and cried out. Though they settled again, she did not linger when she deposited this female in the new den, even though she noted the too-tightly-curled forms of the two sleeping there. The rest of her young must be brought here while the darkness lasted. She nudged the newcomer closer to the others. This time as she approached the old den, mother raccoon picked up the sound of hungry chirrups. Scampering up the tree she peered in the hole to see her two blind, deaf babies scootching themselves around on their bellies. The female blundered into mother raccoon’s leg and immediately the searching noises changed to sucking sounds. Mother raccoon picked her up by the scruff of the neck and started down the trunk. At the base of the tree she stopped and waited for the den noise to quiet. Instead the cries became more and more strident, changing from hunger chitters to cries of panic. Mother raccoon turned and climbed back up the tree, her daughter still gripped in her mouth. She released this baby and turned to the one-who-was-afraid, licking him until his cries of fear subsided. Then she eased over on her side, letting these two babies drink. As the babies relaxed into sleep, mother raccoon fought off the urge to join them. With a little shake, she stood up. The one-who-had-been-afraid whimpered and she reached over and grasped him firmly at the neck. The other kit barely stirred. As mother raccoon ran, she noted that the darkness was beginning to soften and change color. By the time she deposited this baby in the new den, hurried back for the next, and stood again at the edge of the too-wide-trail with her last kit, the dark had all but disappeared, giving way to the dangerous brightness of full-light time. She had barely reached the over-the-stream place when her ears picked up a low, eerie, purring noise far back on the trail. Turning her head she saw an enormous, non-furred creature hurtling toward her—already impossibly close. Baby still dangling from her mouth, she bolted to escape. The creature’s high-pitched attack screech sounded seconds before she felt the impact. A blast of searing pain hurled her into the air; a jolt of agony marked her return to the ground. She rolled over and over. One imperative broke through the pain—flee! Her feet felt ground. She thrust her body upward, staggered and fell, pushed herself up again and shuffle-ran in the direction of her den. Are you all right, Lance?” Lee Evarts dropped the arm he had reflexively thrust out when he slammed on the brakes. “Dad, it’s a raccoon! It’s hurt.” Lance punched the release on the seat belt and jerked at the door handle. His father grabbed him. “Close that door! What do you think you’re doing?” “It’s not dead. We need to help it.” “Don’t be stupid, Lance. You never approach a wounded animal. You should know that. That raccoon would turn on you and claw your eyes out.” “I know. But it’s our fault…” “My fault! The thing swerved toward me. It’s not like I deliberately tried to run it down. It had no business on the road in the first place.”
Betty Vanderwielen 