Racoons

Originally published in the anthology Into the Gloom by Wingless Dreamer 2024

I passed them every morning on my way to work in the sleepy predawn hours before the rest of the world woke. I’d spy them rustling in the bushes or peering out from the garbage bins as I walked by.

“Whole family of raccoons crossing the street this morning,” I told Charlie Monday as I stepped out of the morning darkness and into the light of the office, already thick with the smoke of Charlie’s pipe.

“Hmmm,” Charlie replied from behind his newspaper, not bothering to lower it. “I read city raccoons are smarter than country raccoons. Researchers claim we’re forcing them to evolve. The trickier the locks we put on our garbage bins, the more we select for raccoons with problem-solving skills. City life is breeding genius raccoons.”

“Sure,” I scoffed, “More likely lab-based gene tampering.”

Mornings are nice. Just me and Charlie before the world wakes up. No phones ringing. Just Charlie, his pipe, his newspaper, and his oddball theories. Charlie and me, we’re creatures of the early morning just like the raccoons.

Tuesday morning:

“Raccoon was right there emptying the garbage onto the sidewalk, bold as you please,” I told Charlie. “It just stared at me, daring me to pass. Had to cross to the other side of the street to go around it. How do you like that?”

Charlie grunted, rustling the pages of his newspaper, “Saw a photo of a raccoon on the subway platform in Dundas Station, passing through the morning rush hour commuters relaxed as can be.”

“Probably heading downtown to report to the bureau,” I replied.

Charlie coughed around the stem of his pipe.

“Raccoon family was in the Smith’s garage this morning,” I told Charlie as I stepped in shivering from the Wednesday morning rain, “Must have forgot their garage door open.”

“Read that raccoons can open doorknobs with their paws,” Charlie said, turning the page of his paper. “How do you think they learn that?”

“Government training,” I answered, taking my seat.

“Raccoon was under Mrs. Dobson’s car today,” I reported Thursday as I hung up my umbrella.

“Hiding from a coyote?” Charlie wondered.

“Cutting her brake lines,” I suggested, “she’s an activist.”

“Japanese tourists love feeding the raccoons in Stanley Park,” Charlie said, a puff of smoke rising from behind his paper.

“They’re government agents,” I told him. “Trained to collect DNA from our garbage. CSIS has a file on every one of us thanks to those vermin.”

Charlie folded down a corner of his paper and raised an eyebrow at me before taking another puff of his pipe.

“Not a sign of them this morning,” I told Charlie Friday as I stomped the slush off my boots. “Not a single raccoon on the street.”

Charlie didn’t say a word. In his chair, holding the newspaper and smoking Charlie’s pipe, sat a big raccoon.