I mentioned Saturday that my father brought home a live raccoon when I was but a lad. Several asked if the creature was intended as a pet or as supper. I’m not sure the purveyor of the raccoon cared, but the raccoon became our pet. I was very small and don’t remember everything, such as where the varmint slept and pooped, but he must have been raised by people, because I distinctly remember he did have run of the house, at least on occasion.

Raccoons are a handful, a cross between a monkey and a badger. I also remember that, after we had enjoyed his presence for a while, the raccoon was given to my father’s brother. My uncle brought him back the next day. The raccoon left us for good not long after he took my ear in his sharp teeth and commenced a tug-of-war. This produced the predictable response from a wimpy little kid like me, and my parents came running. I suspect he ended his days in some gloomy wood, searching for Sugar Pops.