Woman Vs. Nature – How I Potentially Saved The Cunninghams From a Rabid Wild Animal and Lived to Tell About It

Some of you “met” my dog through his role as fellow-landscaper in Picking Dandelions.

But in case you missed that reference, let’s be clear. Wrigley (named after Wrigley field) was not the valedictorian of doggy obedience school.

He is, instead, a ridiculously hyper mix that results from blending two high-strung breeds–the Jack Russell and the Brittany Spaniel–into the same gene pool.

In other words, he’s a mess.
Arguably mentally disturbed.
But nonetheless happy.
In a hyper-vigilent sort of way.

I may, in fact, be the only person on the entire planet who loves him. But I stick with him because my friend Mary told me you don’t parent the dog you want, you parent the dog you get.

I say this as pre-requisite information that explains why I didn’t sic Wrigley on the unwelcome critter who took up residence on our deck (under the grill cover) yesterday.

See I am under the probably mistaken impression that wild animals that enter the human sphere are often sick, or in my mind–foaming-at-the-mouth rabid–and thus I was not going to risk my dog’s well-being over its sorry, disease-ridden self.

Instead, I dragged the dog away, hoping that if we left him alone, the unwelcome guest would vacate the grill during the night.

No such luck.

This morning I took the dog outside on a leash to test the waters. It was peaceful for all of eleven seconds, when Wrigley launched himself at the grill cover as if his body-slamming alone might render the animal unconscious. (Jack Russell logic at its finest.)

More hissing and growling.

Since there was no time to engage invaders before breakfast, I headed off to work where I spent every free moment plotting how to dispose of this animal who I was becoming increasingly convinced was planning his sneak attack on my 1 year old little boy inside the house.

(I am nothing if not always rational. And not the least bit paranoid.)

After weighing my options, I flew home on my lunch break ready to demonstrate incredible heroics.

INCREDIBLE HEROICS (in case you missed that).

Attempt #1 went like this:

I grab a Swiffer. Yes, a Swiffer. I stand on a lawn chair–all the while worried because most rodents of this size can climb things–and I poke said Swiffer into the vinyl grill cover. It shifts slightly.

Something very evil, very from-the-pits-of-hell snarls at me.

I run back into the house, slamming the glass door behind me, heart beating wildly.

Attempt #2:

I fill up an orange juice pitcher with water.
I lean out the back door and toss the water at the grill before ducking back inside as quickly as possible.
I watch.
There is no movement whatsoever.
The animal invader is apparently enjoying his free shower.

I try again, this time aiming beneath the grill, where I am sure the animal is lodged.
I run back inside.
I watch.
Zero reaction.

I wonder if it ran away while I was filling my pitcher up. Wouldn’t that be convenient?

I step back outside. I climb up on a chair. I try to budge the cover a little bit.

It hisses its evil presence.

Attempt #3:

I go upstairs and look out the bathroom window.

I think what a brilliant idea it would be to go out on the lower roof overhang and lean down to rip off the grill cover, sending the animal scurrying away.

Then I remind myself that rabid squirrels, raccoons and possums can climb.

I envision a startled, vicious animal scurrying upwards at me, starting a startling-domino-effect that sends me tumbling off the roof to lifelong paralysis.

I cancel Attempt #3.

Attempt #4:

I google “how to get rid of a raccoon or a possum or a squirrel that may or may not want to eat your one year old little boy”.

The first few results, no lie, are recipes for possum-stew.

I do not like the sound of Possum Stew, so I abandon Attempt #4.

Attempt #5:

I call Animal Control.

A lady answers. I say how I know they deal with domestic animals but could she give me any advice about a raccoon or possum? (I leave out that it is targeting my baby in case she’s one of those annoying rational people.)

Oh, well have you tried lifting the grill cover up and letting it walk away? She says.

Helpfully.

I mention that when I move the grill cover it hisses and snarls like perhaps it is not a raccoon or a possum at all, but is more of a pygmy cougar or lioness that’s wandered a long way from home.

She says I could call a pest company, which would be very expensive. I worry that they might hurt the animal. I am not for hurting animals.

I tell her this, so she points out my only option is to do it myself. “I would make sure someone else is in earshot (thankfully, my new neighbor–who I’m sure would like our 2nd run-in to involve rescuing me from a miniature cougar–is outside).”

“I’d also carry a big stick.” She says. No lie.

This leads me to poke around at the grill cover with my mop handle again. But all the hissing fails to convince me I should dislodge the animal using my “big stick”.

Attempt #6:

I find a rope in the basement.

I lasso the grill (This is really true, despite its bizzarity. I could be on the Amazing Race or Minute to Win It with all these skills, people).

I start shaking the grill via the rope.

After a second, a little nose pops out.

I shake it some more, almost tipping the grill on its side.

(Did I mention I am shaking it while holding the rope from inside my dining room? Don’t worry, I didn’t begin this until analyzing if a rabid cougar could somehow squeeze itself in the inch of space still open due to the rope being stuck in the door frame.)

Out pops said nose again.

This time I can see the nose is attached to a very portly raccoon who emerges only long enough to look directly at me, defiantly, before heading back into his new grill-cover house.

This makes me mad, so I shake the grill like its an earthquake simulation. This raccoon is experiencing 4.9 on the Richter scale.

He comes out again, glancing at me with a bothered stare for disrupting him. I keep shaking the grill AND I start yelling, “Get out of our yard! Go! Get out of our yard!” (Also real. What else would you yell at a raccoon that you want to get out of your yard?)

Please note this is a stock image. The actual raccoon was 10-times this size. And much more evil and rabid looking.

Defeated, the raccoon saunters off the end of the deck and leaves.

I flatten the grill cover and fold it over a chair where it will no longer be a tent for this raccoon’s makeshift camping outings.

I then go inside and tell my dog and my husband (who I call at work) to notify them of my new status as champion over nature. I am sure NBC will be calling to offer me a reality show soon, I note in between crowning myself as hero of the backyard.

The best part is that sneaky little raccoon will never get his hands on my little boy.