We’ve been feeding racoons on our back porch for years. The family dynamics change, but there’s always a male and a female, usually with a kit or two. For a while, we had only two, a couple I called Maggie and Jiggs, and if that doesn’t age me, I don’t know what does.
Recently, we’ve had a crowd, an alpha male, whom I named Vito, and what seems to be two females, plus two kits. Vito becomes highly indignant if his food is disturbed, and that includes any food he decides he likes better than his own. I have taken to spreading the dishes over a wide area to prevent any altercations.
Vito may think he’s the Godfather or Top Dog, but that doesn’t hold much where I’m concerned. Unfortunately, he gave one of the kits a rough time one day last week and I had to rescue the poor thing.
True to form, I brought it into the house, made it a nest, and gave it a name. Not being quite as dumb as most people think I am, I wrapped Rocky in an old towel before I started lugging him around, and then fed him canned cat food from a baby spoon. He ate until he burped, at which time, I figured he was full. He growled at me once or twice, more as a matter of form than anything else, since I am considerably larger – and probably meaner – than he is. We refrained from introducing Rocky and Boris, just as a precaution.
thisendoftheswamp 