Sorry I haven't been posting so much. Its been busy this semester!
I just realized that I have six classes left until I graduate. I'm in four right now, meaning that if I pick up two this summer, I will be out of here. I am stunned and incredibly pleased.
There is a raccoon that has taken residence beneath the old shed right next my place. He ought to have been a delightful addition to all of the other wildlife on the property. I remember reading about families in Maine setting out saucers of milk for this exact creature on saucy July nights. You would give him bread and he would dip it into the lake before eating, in a classic postcard to all things wild.
Yet as this tale developed, I came to remind myself of the tourists who have mistakenly believed that grizzly beers were as huggable as their loveable cartoons.
Our outdoor cat is now afraid of small noises and tiny movements. These days, she bounds into my brother's place like a donkey chased by the proverbial stick. I then catch her darting straight to the window and peering avidly outside whilst twitching slightly. Meanwhile, a nocturnal bachelor has started making impressively loud forays behind my bedroom deep in the night.
Last week I heard rain dribbling against the metal drainpipes of the house- a slow sonorous back and forth trickle. After a few moments, it got louder. On impulse, I banged on the far wall that was by my bed.
The rain stopped.
Earlier that day, I had fought hard for the raccoon to stay. Still remembering the mythical Maine cottage, I told my brother that to have such unique wildlife on the property was a mark of distinction, meaning that we were living a lifestyle that few in North America enjoyed. He told me bluntly that some animals carried diseases, and not unlike rats, got into garbage. They could get rabies, froth at the mouth, and bite a passerby.
When the cat let out bloodcurling shrieks in the dark and further put paid to my fantases of peaceful coexistence, I thought it was all over with. The "raccoon people" were summoned. They arrived in a truck loaded with gear and proceeded to be paid a hefty sum to catch the feral fellow and (ro my relief) safely release him up on the Malahat, a mountainous area that frames the roads needed to travel "up-island" from Victoria.
So one week later, I was lying in bed. No one else was on the property; my brother was on a ski trip somewhere. There was a crash in my closet, then a scuffle. I was tired and tried to ignore it until it registered: someone was breaking into my place! There were two options: it could be Davy Crockett's nemesis or an actual human being. Since I had freaked out at deer noises last summer, I opted for the former and phoned my parents at five thirty in the morning instead of dialing 911. "I thought the thing was gone!" I told my dad.
"No, no. There is a trap behind your kitchen. Its probably in there thrashing. That must be it," my father concluded. Even though I told him not to come over, he turned up in his nightclothes, squinting in at the door of my bedroom and going out back to check the trap.
It was empty.
Last night, the grating rain started again.
I turned over in bed, shook my head and sighed.