Raccoon Baby Erika MacNeil   © Copyright 2025 by Erika MacNeil

Photo by Chief Trent at Wikimedia Commons.

"Mom! The car door is open! They're inside! Quick!"

I blunder through layers of groggy sleep and manage to fumble open the tent zipper. Clawing my way out into the inky darkness lit only by a half moon, I stumble off the tarp, slick with pre-dawn dew.

I can hear them foraging through the contents of my car, and my stomach lurches as I picture the inevitable scene I'm about to enter, the lingering stench of rotting food and animal scat emanating from the driver's side of my ravaged SUV.

They are boldly complacent when they realize they have unwanted company and do not even have the decency to interrupt their picnic. Snatching at the handle of the passenger door, my apprehension increases as I realize it is still locked. How the heck did they get inside?

My son has scrambled out after me with the flashlight, its beam dancing frantically around the campsite. My bravehearted hound leaps through the opening, barking once before I snatch up her collar, tug her back inside and zip the flap closed again. How can I convince the vermin to vacate the premises without waking our neighbours?

I scurry back to the tent where my daughter slumbers on and locate my keys, pausing to ensure I press the "unlock" button as opposed to the alarm. I hear the familiar click and watch the hazard lights flash, just as I vividly remember doing so earlier the night before. I throw all the doors open, including the trunk, and start shaking the metal cookware we've stored inside, hoping the noisy vibrations will rattle them enough to leave.

Eventually, two fuzzy bodies clamber out and scurry across to the nearby wooded area, under cover of leaf and shadow. I heave a sigh, and glance back at the wreckage. My ten-year-old has figured out how the towel, drying in the frame of the backseat door, was blocking the lock mechanism and allowing the pests to gain entrance. Those little buggers managed to pry open my unprotected vehicle and lay waste to the provisions we had tried in vain to keep away from them.

Apparently, it's been a rough season for berries; we had been chasing away raccoons since noon in broad daylight, as they skulked along the sidelines, lurking in the bushes and treetops, their beady eyes trained on our every move.

I throw the incriminating towel onto the car seat and slam all the doors shut. After punching the lock button on, I test each entry point to prove the car is indeed impenetrable, even to dexterous, opposable thumbs that are smaller than mine. Too exhausted and disgusted to assess the damage, we wearily climb back into our tent and try to ignore the scratching and screeching that eventually ensues, anticipating the paw prints that will be littered across the black surface of my poor Nissan X-Trail.

A week earlier, I had proactively purchased an interior car detailing package from Groupon. With a little foresight, I could have chosen the deluxe upholstery shampoo deal.

In the morning shortly thereafter, I am determined to clean up the mess before my friend, who is in from out of town for the week and had agreed to join us for our "holiday", was ready to stir and rise from her own tent. I know we disturbed her in the middle of the night, and I don't want to impose my carelessness on her any further than I already have.

Unfortunately, best intentions are rarely sufficient. Upon lifting the trunk door, I soon discover why it is so important to hope for the best, but plan for the worst.

Curled up in a heap are two little baby raccoons, a tangle of tails and noses, twitching fearfully in a nest of filth. Clearly, the racket from the previous night had been the desperate sounds of the parents trying to rescue their pups, more urgent than the outraged cries of thwarted thievery.

Stupidly, I start to coax them out like I do to my dog when she rides in the back. She is straining at her leash, tied fast to the nearby picnic table, her tail wagging furiously. Too late, I realize I should have created an alternate exit, because they have now clambered over both seats and slunk under the dashboard, tucked in next to the steering column.

By this time, my companion has emerged into the morning light and is completely and understandably revolted. Mango skins, banana guts and pita crumbs litter the seats. An entire bag of Cheerios has been consumed. The radio antenna is chewed into a frayed mess. She manages to urge the larger and presumably more courageous of the two, out from beneath the bowels of the hood and we watch it amble past our tent and into the brush.

Rather than waste the day waiting for it to pluck up the courage to make a fast getaway, we resign ourselves to some lakeside frolic with an extended beach lounge. Luckily, the forecast on my iPhone matches the weather. News of our plight spreads like wildfire, despite the fire ban due to lack of rain. Various donations of tempting treats are delivered by concerned wildlife experts, including peanut butter on a stick, cat food, tuna fish, and some stale popcorn. The offerings are strewn about the open door in Hansel and Gretel fashion, and we are given several unsolicited pieces of advice on how to effectively remove the underage freeloader.

By nightfall, the raccoon is so relaxed that its hind quarters are slung below the plastic molding of the dashboard and two tiny eyes are peeking out between the cracks. Certain of our victory, we hold a hushed celebration over a dinner of carrot sticks and hummus, all that remains of our pillaged reserves.

And the ordeal would have ended shortly thereafter, had it not been for my big mouth.

As I walk along the path toward the wash station with my dog, a couple passes me and inquires if I am with the "raccoon campsite". After admitting my identity, the man asks if said raccoon is still in hiding. "Oh yeah," I ramble, "He's pretty determined to set up residence. We've tried everything. I think we just have to wait it out. We have to leave tomorrow though; I don’t know what we're going to do if he isn't gone by morning."

I should have known better. Next thing I know, upon returning to my picnic table, the man has shown up with a croquet mallet during my absence, and attempted to pound the raccoon out of my car. The animal became so scared that it is now entangled in the wires underneath, clinging to them in sheer terror.

"I tried to tell him," my friend said. "Let nature take its course." A local woodsman drives by in his pick up truck and offers to shoot the raccoon in the morning if it's not gone. We graciously but firmly decline. Shaking her head, my friend climbs into her tent. "We'll just have to form a stakeout," she muses. We ask our neighbours if we can store our stuff in their car and leave ours open. We are hoping the furry family will come back for the little guy and convince him that my car makes a lousy den.

Our optimism and humane attitude pay off in dividends. Not only do we get a convoy of raccoons to parade through our vehicle, but the baby does indeed decide to join his comrades and falls into rank, out the door and into the night. Much to the delight of my son, who does his best to train the flashlight on the crime scene, poking it through the tent flap without letting the hordes of mosquitoes inside, our mission is accomplished to the exhausted cheers of the adults.

The next morning, we wearily pack our meager belongings into the trunk. "You're sure it's gone?" my daughter glances dubiously over my shoulder at the now empty space behind my steering wheel. "Don't worry, honey," I assure her, "We looked three times."

I hope there isn't a surcharge on the car cleaning deal for eliminating raccoon germs.

Raccoon baby

Wants to drive the car!

Raccoon baby

Won't get very far!

Raccoon baby

Please come out!

Raccoon baby

What's all the fuss about?

Raccoon baby

It's time to go home!

Raccoon baby

Your family's all alone!

Raccoon baby

We want our car back!

Raccoon baby

We have to go and pack!

Raccoon baby

So glad you chose to go.

Raccoon baby

You put on quite a show.

Raccoon baby

You sure took your time.

Raccoon baby

At least we made a rhyme.