I woke at three AM to the sound of screaming. For a bleary moment I wondered if I was hearing one of the murders I only write about. But the keening went on and on, loud as could be. Was something being attacked by a predator? But the predator would eventually put it out of its misery, and this was an endless litany. Finally my husband trudged downstairs and outside to follow the eerie sound.
He returned to tell me that someone had trapped a raccoon in a cage--someone only three doors down--and the raccoon was telling everyone, at the top of his little bandit lungs, how much he disliked this reality.
This morning he is still there; perhaps they are waiting for the forestry people to come and pick him up. He's still yelling--don't animals get hoarse? And although I sympathize with anyone who has a raccoon problem, I can't help but look at it from his point of view. The Poe-like horror of entrapment; the knowledge that nothing good can come of this (at least not from the raccoon's point of view). But I suppose that's the writer in me. I'm tempted to go down there and beg them to let him out of the cage, if only to stop his caterwauling.
On the other hand, I let my dog out this morning and found that another raccoon had spread my garbage across my lawn. So maybe it's better if they do get relocated to the woods . . .