Reckless Raccoon

I arise early in the morning—a little after 4:00 am, to begin my day. Shortly after I am up and stumbling around, I usually get the urge to excrete some of the previous day's solid menu items. We have an outdoor composting privy, so I step outside in the dark, with a flashlight in hand.

One recent morning I was faced with a raccoon, nosing around the yard, looking for any food tidbits that may have been left for him. I stopped, surprised, and pointed the light at him. He stopped, surprised, and looked at me, without moving. Trying to shoo him away, I hissed at him. He stood his ground, as if to be puzzled by a hissing beam of light. OK, I thought, maybe he needs something more threatening to urge him on his way. I lowered my voice as much as I could, and growled—trying to imitate a bear or a 1,000-pound raccoon predator. He turned and slowly ambled off. So much for my frightening impression.

The next morning I ventured out in the dark, this time pausing at the doorstep and pointing my flashlight out to his yesterday's location. There he was again, sniffing around for food! I did my best to growl again—sounding as large as I was able. Once again, he turned and slowly sauntered away... appearing not the slightest bit worried.

A couple of days later I opened the door to seek my morning's relief at the privy, and guess who was waiting for me. He was actually sitting down, as if he was waiting to see if the snarling light would come out to greet him yet again. This time I did the loudest and nastiest growl I could produce, as I simultaneously stomped my feet. Maybe a growling light with big, pounding paws would intimidate him. This time he turned and moved away at a slightly greater pace—but still too leisurely for my taste, so I pursued him, making as much stomping noise as I could. He retreated.

I turned and headed toward the privy, believing I had made my point that he was not welcome. Suddenly I heard the skittering sound of little feet, as the raccoon came streaking up from behind, almost brushed against my leg, and vanished into the darkness ahead of me.

It was almost as if he was toying with me—as if we were engaged in some playful game. A bit rattled, I did my privy business, nervously peering into the gloom, but he seemed to have moved on. I've not seen him since, on my morning affairs. Maybe he tired of the game, or decided there were no morsels of food to be had, or is off seeing if he can startle a neighbor as much as he did me.

Who Is Preying?

No, this is not a religious post about petitioning the Lord...it's about battles for food and survival. Each day I take a walk or two in the surrounding woods, following twisting and sinuous paths that I've forged over the years around trees and other obstacles. I'm always accompanied by the two dogs—one entering the twilight of her years and the other one young and very energetic. In latter’s dashes off into the forest after one critter or another, I've estimated that he manages to cover about 5-6 times the ground I do. The older dog—wise to winding ways of the paths—cuts off a lot of extra loops and manages to return home having traveled about half the distance that I do. To each his own.

A few days ago, strolling near dusk, I watched the junior hound suddenly bolt ahead, in hot pursuit of something. I saw him flush a large bird into the air and noticed a critter scooting up a tree. He loves to chase squirrels up into the over-story branches and bark excitedly at them, as if he might call them back down to resume the chase. He never succeeds at it. This critter seemed larger than a squirrel, however.

As I neared the scene of the action, I saw that it was a raccoon, now some 30 feet up the trunk of a large tree. Then my eye caught sight of the bird. It was a barred owl. It is one of the largest owls we have around here—a few inches shy of two feet long. I watched it silently swoop from one tree to another—not being inclined to fly away, which surprised me, because they are quite shy.

Then I saw the owl head for the raccoon and whap it with its talons as it flew by. A second owl appeared (its mate?) and the two of them dove several more times at the coon, before they settled on a branch and transformed themselves into statues. With no more action forthcoming and not wanting to disrupt a natural event, I headed on down the trail—leaving the drama to play out as Mother Nature wished.

I returned later along the same path and paused to see what may have happened, but neither owls nor raccoon could I spot. As I moved off, I could hear a faint plaintive call from farther back in the woods—sounding more like an animal in distress than a bird call. Was it an injured coon, wailing over its wounds, I wondered, or just my imagination?

What was going on? Returning home, I did a little research to try to discern who might be preying on whom. Barred owls mostly go after small mammals, and I'd not consider a raccoon to be small—not like the mice or rabbits that owls prefer. So I doubt that the owls were preying on the coon.

Raccoons prey on many things, including invertebrates (worms and bugs), plants, and vertebrates (fish and frogs). But good old Wikipedia says they also go for bird eggs! Could that coon had been trying to raid the owls' nest for a couple of tasty and nutritious eggs? This is the time of the year (late April) that barred owls have mated and may well have a few eggs about to hatch. The action I observed may have been mom and pop driving off a predator trying to dine on their unhatched babies.

Maybe I don't want to know who was the predator and who was the prey. I don't like to think about owls' eggs being eaten or a raccoon being injured. Regardless of what I like or not, Mother Nature, besides being incomparably beautiful, can at times be quite ruthless. Can't have one without the other.